Democratic Insecurities: Violence, Trauma, and Intervention in Haiti [1 ed.] 9780520260535

Table of contents :
Contents
List of Abbreviations
List of Illustrations
Acknowledgments

Introduction: Democracy, Insecurity, and the Commodification of Suffering

1. The Terror Apparatus
2. The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization
3. Routines of Rupture and Spaces of (In)Security
4. Double Binds in Audit Cultures
5. Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid
6. Sovereign Rule, Ensekirite, and Death
7. The Tyranny of the Gift

Notes
Glossary
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

CALIFORNIA SERIES IN PUBLIC ANTHROPOLOGY The California Series in Public Anthropology emphasizes the anthropologist’s role as an engaged intellectual. It continues anthropology’s commitment to being T witness, to describing, in human terms, how life is lived beyond the borders of many readers’ experiences. But it also adds a commitment, through ethnography, to reframing the terms of public debate—transforming received, accepted understandings of social issues with new insights, new framings

Democratic Insecurities Violence, Trauma, and Intervention 7'^ Haiti

Series Editor: Robert Borofsky (Hawaii Pacific University)

Contributing Editors: Philippe Bourgois (University of Pennsylvania), Paul Farmer (Partners in Health), Alex Hinton (Rutgers University), Carolyn Nord­ strom (University of Notre Dame), and Nancy Scheper-Hughes (UC Berkeley) University of California Press Editor: Naomi Schneider

Erica Caple James

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA PRESS Berkeley • Los Angeles • London

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the generous support of the Anne G. Lipow Endowment Fund for Social Justice and Human Rights of the University .of California Press Foundation, which was established

by Stephen M. Silberstein.

University of California Press, one of the most distinguished university presses in the United States, enriches lives around the world by advancing scholarship in the humanities, social sciences, and natural sciences. Its activities are supported by-the UC Press Foundation and by philanthropic contributions from individuals and institutions. For more, information, visit www.ucpress.edu.

University of California Press Berkeley and Los Angeles, California University of California Press, Ltd. London, England

© 20 JO by The Regents of the University of California Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data James, Erica Caple. Democratic insecurities : violence, trauma, and intervention in Haiti / Erica Caple James. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. iSBN.978-0-520-26053-5 (cloth : alk. paper) ISBN 978-0-520-26054-2 (pbk.: alk. paper) X. Democratization—Haiti. 2. Political violence— Haiti. 3. Humanitarian assistance—Haiti. 4. Intervention (International law). 5. Haiti—Politics and government—1986- 1. Title.

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This book is printed on Cascades Enviro xoo, a 100% post consumer waste, recycled, de-inked fiber. FSC recycled certified and processed chlorine free. It is acid free, Ecologo certified, and manufactured by BioGas energy.

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Contents

List of Abbreviations

.

in

'List of Illustrations ’ Acknowledgments ? Preface

*

Introduction: Democracy, Insecurity, and the Commodification of Suffering The Terror Apparatus Zi The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

‘ J. Routines of Rupture and Spaces of (In)Security

. 4..,Double Binds in Audit Cultures

Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid 6. Sovereign Rule, Ensekirite, and Death

i

39 81 132^7^

2.i3 '^7^

The Tyranny of the Gift

2.87

Notes

^97

Glossary

312

Bibliography

3^5

Index

335

VC

Abbreviations

AAAS

American Association for the Advancement of Science

AQOCI

Quebecois Association for International Assistance

ADF

America’s Development Foundation

AOJ

USAID Administration of Justice Program

BAI

Bureau des Avocats Internationaux (Office of Interna­ tional Lawyers)

BP^

Bureau Poursuites et Suivi pour les Victimes (Proceed­ ings and Follow-up Office for Victims)

CAPS

Clinician-Administered PTSD Scale

CHR '

Conference Haitienne des Religieux et des Religieuses (Haitian Conference of the Religious)

CIA

Central Intelligence Agency

CIDA

Canadian International Developnient Agency

CIFD

Comite Inter-Agences Femmes et Developpement Systeme des Nations Unies en Haiti (Inter-Agency Women and Development Committee of the United Nations System in Haiti)

CIMO

Compagnie d’Intervention et de Maintien de I’Ordre

ix

X

Abbreviations

crvpoL

U.N. Civilian Police

CNVJ

Commission Nationale Verite et Justice (National Truth and Justice Commission)

DPPDH

U.N./OAS Departement pour la Promotion et la Pro­ tection des Droits de I’homme (Department for the Promotion and Protection of Human Rights)

Abbreviations

IMSI

,4bM

Institute for North South Issues

International Organization for Migration

IPSF

Interim Public Security Force

TRCT

International Rehabilitation Council for Torture Victims

ft

IRI

International Republican Institute

DRC

Development Research Center

FAD’H

Forces Armees d’Haiti (Armed Forces of Haiti)

FDM

Fon Dwa Moun (Le Fonds des Droits Humains, the Human Rights Fund)

FAVILEK

Fanm Viktim Leve Kanpe (Women Victims Mobilize)

FNCD

Front National pour le Changement et la Democratic (National Front for Change and Democracy)

JRS - l^HR

Fondation Connaissance et Liberte (Open Society Institute/Haiti)

LFAS

Front Revolutionnaire pour I’Avancement et le Progres d’Haiti (Revolutionary Front for the Advancement and Progress of Haiti)

M AB

Mothers Across Borders

.M’APVIV

Mouvement d’Appui aux Victimes de Violence Organisee (Assistance Movement for Victims of Organized

FOCAL

FRAPH

GCAFVCE

Groupe de Concertation des Associations de Femmes Victimes du Coup d’fitat (Consultative Group of Associations of Women Coup Victims)

Justice, Democracy and Governance Program, USAID/

jpc

Haiti Commission fipiscopale Nationale Justice et Paix (Episcopal Justice and Peace Commission, Justice and Peace Commission)

’t

Jesuit Refugee Service Lawyers Committee for Human Rights Ligue Feminine d’Action Sociale (Feminine Social Action League)

.J

MDM • . MICIVIH

Violence) Medecins du Monde (Doctors of the World)

Mission Civile Internationale en Haiti, OEA/ONU (U.N./OAS International Civilian Mission)

GOH

Government of Haiti

HMO

Health Maintenance Organization

HNP

Haitian National Police

HRF

Human Rights Fund

MNF

Multinational Force

HRW

Human Rights Watch

;Movi-3o

Mouvman Viktim 30 Sektanm (September 30th Vic­

HRW/A

Human Rights Watch/Americas

HWA

Haitian Women’s Association

MPP

tims’ Movement) Mouvman Peyizan Papay (Peasant Movement of

lACHR

Inter-American Commission on Human Rights

ICITAP ICM

".MIPONUH

Papaye) f

International Criminal Investigative Training Assis­ tance Program International Civilian Mission

Mission de Police Civile des Nations Unies en Haiti (United Nations Civilian Police Mission in Haiti)

•

MSI

Management Systems International

NCHR

National Coalition for Haitian Refugees (National

Coalition for Haitian Rights) NED

National Endowment for Democracy

xii

Abbreviations

NGO

nongovernmental organization

NPR

National Partnership for Reinventing Government

NRI

National Republican Institute for International Affairs

OAS

Organization of American States

ONM

Office National pour la Migration (National Office for Migration)

OPC

. Office Protecteur du Citoyen (Office for the Protec­ tion of Citizens)

OPL

Organisation du Peuple en Lutte (Organization of People in Struggle)

OTI

USAID Office of Transition Initiatives

OVKD

Oganizasyon Viktim Koudeta (Organization of Coup Victims)

PHR

Physicians for Human Rights

PIRfcD

Projet Integre pouf le Renforcement de la Democratic en Haiti (Integrated Project for the Reinforcement of Democracy in Haiti)

PROMESS

Programme des Medicaments Essentiels en Haiti (Pro­ gram for Essential Medications in Haiti)

PVO

Private Voluntary Organization

TKL

ti kominote legliz (ecclesial base communities)

UNDP

United Nations Development Programme

UNHCR

United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees

UNIFEM

United Nations Development Fund for Women

UNMIH

United Nations Mission in Haiti

USAID

United States Agency for International Development

WHO

World Health Organization

WOH

Washington Office on Haiti

WOLA

Washington Office on Latin America

Illustrations

1. U.S. military “Support Group” mural, Camp Fairwinds, Port-au-Prince 2. Place des Martyrs, Port-au-Prince 3. America’s Development Foundation Headquarters, Port-au-Prince 4. Market, Martissant 5. Legacy of Hurricane Gordon, Martissant 6. Harry Truman Boulevard ■q. MICIVIH and OCODfi human rights murals, Port-au-Prince 8, OCODE mural, Port-au-Prince

^4^

^45

^73

xiii

Acknowledgments

tl,

this book is the product of many years of reflection on the long­ term consequences of social suffering. It seeks to analyze how indi­ vidual, organizational, and governmental actors attempted to redress 'the trauma that resulted from political violence in Haiti. During my research I assessed the efficacy of a variety of efforts to promote individ­ ual and collective healing after psychosocial ruptures. I also considered how individuals endured in the face of multiple forms of insecurity, especially when such rehabilitative measures failed despite their good ..intentions. A crucial dilemma emerged during the course of this work. ;hqw do individual and institutional humanitarian actors grapple suc­ cessfully with conditions of ongoing insecurity without resorting to the ' very predatory practices that create such conditions? The conclusions ’ that I reached are solely my own, and I bear full responsibility for what

is 'expressed herein. A (

i have been fortunate to receive the support of a number of individuals who helped me to begin considering the moral and ethical dilem­ mas explored here. I thank Sarah Coakley for her questions regarding whether pain and suffering can be redemptive. For their dedication to Haiti and to challenging the structural roots of poverty worldwide, I express my admiration and appreciation for Paul Farmer and the staff XV

xvi

Acknowledgments

of Partners in Health. Special thanks are owed to Loune Viaud for her early support of my work in Haiti. Ellen Israel, Joel Theodat, and the staff of the UMASS-Boston Haitian Creole Language Institute were integral to facilitating my initial field research. I would also like to thank my many hosts in Haiti and those individuals and families who graciously allowed me to enter their lives during a very difficult time. Without their trust and generosity, I would not have been able to understand the sense of risk and vulnerability that they experienced, nor would I have witnessed their creativity in the face of despair. Given the frequent shifts in “insecurity” in Haiti, it would be imprudent of me to name them. However, I would like to convey my respect and gratitude to the staff of the three institutions at which I conducted research: “Chanm Fanm,” America’s Development Founda­ tion (Haiti), and the Mars/Kline Center for Neurology and Psychiatry at the State University Hospital. In addition, I feel fortunate to have been permitted to participate in meetings with the staff members of USAID/ Haiti and their development partners and express thanks for their open­ ness in sharing their personal views on political development assistance. Several individuals who worked in the domains of .human rights, development, public health, and humanitarian aid in Haiti deserve special recognition for their contributions to my research: Ghislaine Adrien, Lise-Marie Dejean, Necker Dessables, Chavannes Douyon, Alexis Gardella, Louis-Jeannie Girard, Mechell Jacob, Mona Jean, Bert Laurent, Ira Lowenthal, Cecile Marotte, Michael Miller, Polycarpe Mvita, Paulette Paul, Terry Rey, and Hugo Triest. I am especially grate­ ful to Herve Rakoto Razafimbahiny for his support during my research. The Social Science Research Council/MacArthur Foundation Fellow­ ship on International Peace and Security in a Changing World provided generous financial support for this project. During the course of this fellowship, the methodological suggestions of my SSRC field advisers, Kathryn Sikkink and Charles Hale, were indispensable to the success of this project. I also thank the National Center for PTSD at the Boston' Veterans Administration and the Institute for Social Research at the Uni­ versity of Michigan for training me in the use of the CAPS and the CIDI. This project would not have been possible without the superb instruction and generous financial support that I received from Har­ vard University, especially from the Department of Anthropology and the Department of Social Medicine at Harvard Medical School. In par­ ticular, I thank Michael Herzfeld for his commitment to ethnography and for his ability to see opportunity in the adversities of fieldwork. I

Acknowledgments

xvii

also wish to acknowledge the contributions of Begona Aretxaga, who gave all of her students a grammar with which to think through the seeming illogic of conflict and political violence. The Department of Social Medicine’s NIMH Friday Morning Seminar provided a challeng­ ing but familial environment for its fellows to engage seriously the poli­ tics of global mental health with some of the world’s leading scholars and practitioners. I would like to express my heartfelt thanks to Byron Good and Mary-Jo DelVecchio Good for welcoming my participation ir> the NIMH seminar and for their ongoing support. They have been integral to the critical development of my analysis of mental health and .social institutions and have been outstanding role models throughout my career. I can convey only inadequately my appreciation for the men­ torship of Arthur Kleinman. From his critical reflections on suffering and morality to his subtle but ever-present support of my work, he has helped me to realize a difficult theoretical and methodological project that I have continued to pursue in subsequent research. This book has benefited from the careful reading and comments of my colleagues and friends at MIT. They have created a rare atmosphere of academic rigor, congeniality, and fun that has been fortifying as this book took final form. I thank Manduhai Buyandelger, Michael Fischer, Stefan Helmreich, Jim Howe^ Jean Jackson, David Jones, Graham Jones, Heather Paxson, Susan Silbey, and Chris Walley. I also express apprecia­ tion to former colleagues Joseph Dumit, Hugh Gusterson, and Sus^n Slyomovics for their comments and advice. Lam indebted to graduate students Laurie Denyer and Mia White and to the Ph.D. students in/the HASTS ethnography classes for their comments. Special thanks and appreciation are owed to Peter Agree, Paul Brodwin, Mark Goodale, Antonius Robben, Kate Wahl, and Ken Wissoker for their comments and conversation as the manuscript progressed, as well as to several anonymous reviewers. Thanks also to the production and editing team at UC Press, to Sheila Berg for her dedication to the craft of writing, and to Naomi Schneider for bringing the project to fruition. My personal debts to friends and family are numerous. Sheri Weiser, Narquis Barak, Kim Burgess, Sonja Plesset, Vanessa Fong, and Nicole Newendorp have been colleagues and friends whose affection and judi­ cious engagement with my ideas have enriched my work and life-. I also thank the Dolor and Gabriel families for their support of my personal and professional development. The bonds of love and family have also nourished me across time and space.' My grandmother, Gladys Burns, was a model of strength

xviii

Acknowledgments

and grace under fire. My parents, June D. Cargile and Dr. Raymond W. James, enable me to pursue difficult questions away from home with security. Along with my riiother, I thank my sister and brother, Lori and Ray, for their love and steadfast encouragement and for their willing­ ness to read chapters in progress. I thank Joseph Lubin for his ongoing friendship and for his support for my research in Haiti. I am grateful to our son, Kieren, for his willingness to brave a new environment in Haiti at a very young age, for his comments on the book, and for his love. This book would not have reached its final form without the atten­ tive reading and suggestions of my husband, Malick Ghachem. As a legal historian and scholar of Haiti, his questions about the legacies of slavery in contemporary Haiti were essential to the crafting of this book. His thoughtfulness, sacrifices, and love throughout this journey have sustained me through difficult times. Finally, I thank our toddlers, Ayanna and Faisal, for making me laugh, dance, and sing each day.

Preface > ‘1.

. J 'S«

iV,.

J

i

Sf

Op January ix, xoio, as this book entered the final stages of produc­ tion, Haiti was struck with a catastrophe of unimaginable proportions, ■ "fEe^ latest in a long series of catastrophes that have afflicted the nation and its people. The epicenter of the 7.0 magnitude earthquake was mere (kilometers southwest of the nation’s capital, Port-au-Prince, where the ethnographic research discussed in this book was conducted. Between ■ 1995 and xooo I worked with survivors of human rights abuses from th< 1991-94 coup years and studied the interveners that attempted to feK^hilitate them as part of my project analyzing the role of humanitar­ ian, and development assistance in postconflict reconstruction. Current ’■estiinates are that 80 percent of the capital has been destroyed. As of this‘writing I have had little word of the fate of the people with whom Tworked. A few in positions of power, wealth, and security have surviyed. Others have died. Many are missing. The fate of most of the poor ’• ' ,prPrdemocracy activists who shared with me their lives of suffering and :^esilience remains unknown. The scale and nature of the recent devastation are unprecejiented. Nonetheless, the physical and psychosocial aftershocks have created eerie, parallels to events analyzed in this book—from accusations that Haitian culture and religious practices are responsible for this tragedy and'KSinpsr’effoftsto remedy it to the outpouring of concern for Hai­ tian victims and the influx of aid to the nation. Other parallels that raise-the uncanny specter of deja vu are the lack of donor coordination. xix

XX

Preface

wides^ead frustration withjhedtoihlltionLg^manita^^ arid^eZfiScalatigirof vioIencTamong the^ntSn^yzdisplacS^ Since the ousteToTtErDuvalier’dict^^ in 1986, the Govern­ ment of Haiti has had only limited capacity to protect its citizens and has struggled to establish security apparatuses that operate transpar­ ently and are accountable to. Haitian citizens. While the abbreviated tenure of Haiti’s first democratically elected president, Jean-Bertrand Aristide, initially raised hopes of peace and security in the nation, his ouster by military coup in 1991 and three subsequent years of repres­ sion thwarted those aspirations. Since the political upheaval of 2004 following Aristide’s second ouster from the presidency, thousands of UN military peacekeepers, international police, and international and local staffers have worked to arrest crime and promote security, much as was the case in the period following the restoration of democracy in 1994. Many of these individuals were killed during the earthquake, and others are still missing. Although additional UN and U.S. military forces are currently attempting to restore order and provide humanitarian relief, security remains of paramount concern. The earthquake damaged theTiational penitentiary, thousands of former prisoners' are currently at large. Some of these escapees undoubtedly orchestrated the destabilization of democracy and security in Haiti in the 1990s and in 2004. Armed gang members who had been imprisoned have reportedly returned to slums they once ruled to reassert their sovereign power. The struggles of the Government of Haiti to protect its citizens and assert its sovereignty are no better demonstrated than by the actions of an American missionary group recently charged with child trafficking. The group claims it was rescuing children from the chaos of postquake conditions and was taking them to an orphanage in the Dominican Republic where they would be adopted. I he group felt a drvtire call to intervene without authorization by the Haitian state in order to save the children, some of whom still have living parents. As the case has pro­ gressed, questions have arisen about the true intentions of this group, the corruption of the Haitian judiciary, and whether justice is for sale or vnirheineted-ouL attordilig to the"ruIe^lav\r.-But the casFiTaiso an indicator of the extent to which international actors feel entitled to intervene in order to fulfill their mandates. There are other parallels to the circumstances documented in this book. As during the 1991-94 period, hundreds of thousands of-Hai­ tians have fled to provincial cities, towns, and villages seeking asylum

Preface

xxi

in areas that once depended on their labor in the capital for subsistence. Many Haitians have crossed into the Dominican Republic seeking medieatcafe'^nd iiewTiy^ritre^ins und^TwftgTheg-the-population shift to iuial IHitTwill r^ult in permanent resettlement and future develop­ ment of the nation’s periphery, as was intended by many of the interna­ tional development plans that proposed the nation’s decentralization in prior years. The United States has also begun to prepare its naval site in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, to receive a potential influx of refugees should * conditions worsen and desperation increase. The detention of Haitian “boat people” in this camp is not new. Long before it was used to house suspected terrorists. Camp Delta held tens of thousands of Haitians for reasons of humanitarian and security concerns during the 1991-94 fcoup years. The maj ority of these “ inmates ” were subsequently returned to Haiti, despite its ongoing political and economic crisis. Also reminiscent of the conditions described here are reports that have begun to circulate regarding the rape.i2f_women and young girls. Haitian women of. all classes have traditionally been the pillars of society. TheyjTg^ar greater responsibility for maintaining the household and family than do men, and many do so while also pursuing independent livelihoods to meetTheir families’ needs. Such expectations must be ful­ filled regardless of shifts in political, economic, or environmental condi­ tions. Because of these disproportionate obligations, Haitian women hdve typically been less mobile, and more strongly rooted in their communities.ToF precisely these^s^e reasons, they have also beeTTrhore ^nscepnble to attark.s; it is difficult to flee from^^-secution whea-one^ If^lihood, family, and home are tied to a particular ndshhorhoofl^mar*■' k"et7or place of work. iTcurrellL lepdTTTTfe’ac^ate, the makeshift tent citieTthatTtxrreiTtfy'pfovide refuge to the internally displaced are sites of further victimization of women rather than sites of asylum, which raises additional questions regarding how security will be established in Haiti. Suph^onditions also highlight how gender is an integral component of the e^enence of insecurity-^nd-trfiuma. '"'75ther similarities between the current crisis and the conflict and postconflict period in the 1990s concern the politics of aid. A few tecent reports suggest that criminal actors have begun to capitalize on the chaos in order to expand their traffic in persons, drugs, and illicit goods. This book characterizes black market transactions like these as components of occult economies, some of which incorporate hidden exchanges between material and unseen (or immaterial) worlds. Fur-^ thermore, scandalous stories have circulated about how humanitarian

xxii

Preface

aid has been diverted from its intended recipients into the black market ^IPintehtioned charities have been questi^ed~aKout the’authenticity

and legitimacy of their work in Haiti. There have been signs of conten­ tion between and among grassroots and international nongovernmental organizations regarding how and to which institutions the hundreds of millions of dollars in charitable gifts that have been donated to aid Haiti will be distributed. These ethical debates involving the just distribution of resources to victims and to the organizations that assist them are described here as components of a political economy of trauma. As these events continue to unfold, there~wiircbme a poinTat which • the numerous agencies and agents now working to provide relief will shift from a fr^imework of emergency to one of reconstruction and ^habilitation. This'To'ok analyzes how such transitions dccuEft is a \ camtionary talFdocumenting how conditions of insecurity have evolved over time. Thg phenomenon of insecurity incorporates political and criminal violenceTecoiTCJniic iSstability, environment^vulnerability,and ' Ibflg hisioiiesrof corruption and predation'ofTrhe pafTot Haitians'^?«J •foreigit-iiTtervenei-STThis text also ~chroB’iete§"how the transition from a crisis mode ofmtervention to one aimed at sustainable development of Haitian institutions—the .police, the judiciary, and civil society orga­ nizations that promote democracy, human rights, and rehabilitation and reparations for victims—^provoked competition and strife within the governmental and nongovernmental aid apparatus in the context of insecurity. To some extent the influx of aid had the unintended con­ sequence of exacerbating the conditions that gave rise to military and humanitarian interventions in Haiti in the first place. Some people have characterized the earthquake^gedyms an oppor,_tiyiity-for-Haiti^s--la:aJBsformation,, as long as Haiti^s remain partners in deciding how plans for their country’s redevelopment and recon­ struction are to take place. Calls for partnership and greater economic employment opportunities for Haitians are important and necessary. What remains crucial is that Haitians from all social classes and geo­ graphic locations participate in such plans. Regardless of the material or infrastructural disparities in power between Haiti and other members of the international community, Haitians must be imbued with equal (if not greater) power than international, national, and local interveners in deciding the course of reconstruction efforts in their country. As this book demonstrates, it is perilous to consider Haiti and its citizens solely as clients, recipients of welfare or charity, or as victims. This lesson is even more urgent given that there are several populations

I^reface

xxiii

affected by the earthquake whose status is similar to that of Haiti’s vic­ tims of human rights abuses following the 1994 restoration of democracy. As was the case then, the Government of Haiti possesses little capacity to 'pr^xtidesecurity, civil services, and medical care for its citizensT^Wbmen are inareasmgly” vulnerable to inseourlty.’TfiFniimte of ofphans has hicreased^exp^entiall^rThousandro’f new amputeesTT alT^'^Frequire jhuTti}^ forinsTTrehabiiitafion^ to hefp tiieiirTSt^^^ these p6^Iation^T^rfigte±ouTTor*grcaterp§y^oT6gica^ '^itd other social supports because they are considered “at risk,” but simi­ lar opportunities are not made available for all Haitians to flourish as . ptoductive citizens, it is possible that these groups may become subject ,t6 further stigma and resentment in their communities, as were victims of 'hpman rights abuses from the coup and postcoup years. These issues of population management, the regulation and distribu­ tion of resources, identity, and accountability are important consider’ ations for Haitians in Haiti and its diaspora and for those who would ^id in rehabilitation and reconstruction efforts. However, such cohcerfis should not overshadow attention to the physical, psychosocial, and spiritual effects of trauma that are the primary focus of this book. Irauma can result from ruptures in the routines of daily life, whether (Cgused by natural, industrial, or human authors. Those who survive Speh ruptures may experience acute trauma; providers of care to vic­ tims may experience secondary trauma during and after a crisis. Trauma and emotional distress are phenomena that are culturally mediated and .experienced in bodily ways. Whereas some view the devastation caused by the earthquake as an opportunity to create a blank slate in Haiti, the Stories recounted in this book suggest that without effective strategies to address these traumas the power of memory and the embodied legacies of acute victimization will render attempts to mitigate suffering and to promote reconstruction and development ineffective. Other questions addressed in this book must now be contidered anew. How long will the “emergency” funds flow? How are private donations accounted for and to whom? Will the rehabilitation of trauma (whether physical, psychological, infrastructural, or spiritual) be rationed, regu­ lated, and curtailed prematurely, so as to have only limited effect? What identities will emprge for tiie^new “victims” after Haiti’s dependence on charity, emergency reliefTand other forms bf humanitarian and development Ai(Prccmergcszil52xr~l^|,e component of its current eebhomy? If new paths toward sustainable development cannot be created to empower all Haitians and to restore those who wish to rebuild their

. I j j .

xxiv

Preface

broken communities, aid interventions risk exacerbating the cycles of insecurity that have ebbed and flowed over the past twenty-five years. Supported by a rich cultural heritage, the Haitian people retain a capacity for hope, faith, and resilience that remains a tremendous resource for any efforts to rehabilitate the nation and its people. Even when a powerful minority—whether Haitian or foreign—has posed obstacle's to democracy, human righ^J^sB££Sna~^coiiom^ t|^^r all, the majority has endurgd^JEhey must participate as equal ^rtners m the reconstruction of their nation.'""” ' " ------- ----------- —

Introduction Insecurity, and the Commodification of Suffering

What has dehumanized me has become a commodity, which I •offer for sale.

Cambridge, Massachusetts March xoio

Jean Amery, At the Mind’s Limits

In this book I trace the links between military and humanitarian interventibns in contemporary Haiti and the nation’s ongoing struggles to consolidate democracy and combat insecurity. I first chronicle the his­ toric "roots ^d pfactifces of terrOTap^ratuses and then describe how the coup regime targeted Haitian pro-democracy activists with cruel forms of domination during the 1991-94 period of de facto rule. I recount how members of the coup apparatus used sexual and gender violence as tools of repression to terrorize the poor pro-democracy sector. I also describe the disordered subjectivities that such traumatic experiences produced in women and men whom I encountered during my work. However, .this book does not focus exclusively on the assemblage of sex, gender, violence, and trauma—a negative nexus of power that has plagued sociopolitical realities in Haiti from the-colonial era to the pres­ ent (James 1989 [1963]; James 2.003; Renda 2001; Rey 1999). Rather, it describes the processes by which individuals and families targeted for repression formulated new political suhjcctwities as apparatuses of ter­ ror and compassion intervened in their Eves. On December 16, 1990, the citizens^ Haiti elected the former priest Jea^-Bertrand Aristide president ofthe republic/The democratic election was historic afteTn^rly thirty yeaiS'-of-'lhe bTutarK^editary puva|ieiuiiZ^£S^"1fran^^ and

Jean-Claude “Baby Doc” Duvalier, 1971-86) and five years of “Duvalierism without Duvalier,” a period in which Duvalierist armed forces

2

Introduction

?' Introduction

sought to maintain political control by means of violent repression of pro-democratic sectors in civil society (Barthelemy 1992; Fatton 2002: 64-70). Aristide, a charismatic activist, espoused the ethics of liberation theology and promised to exercise a “preferential option for the poor,” ' The Lavalas coalition,^ a network of grassroots, pro-democracy advo­ cacy groups, endorsed Aristide as a candidate, and he won 67 percent of the popular vote. Thejiistorkui^uguration of President Aristide on February 7,1991, gave many Haitians ho^ that democracy7the~rnlb of nomic equality might become enduring conditions in thenation.^ BuT the meaning of these concepts has been at the heart of conflict in and over the Haitian nation throughout its history. To the consternation of those who supported the popular movement for democracy, the power to define and measure such conditions has remained in the hands of the international, national, and local actors whose interests in Haiti are often in opposition to those of the poor majority. These powerful actors routinely intervene to alter the course of Haiti’s affairs. Dreams of sociopolitical transformation in Haiti were short-lived. On September 30, 1991, Aristide was ousted by a military coup d’etat. In the three years that followed, tens of thousands of paramilitary gun­ men known as atache (attaches) aligned with the military to repress the population.^ The terror apparatus murdered, raped, and “disappeared” fellow citizens in the poor pro-democracy sector, using methods of tor­ ture with historical roots in the brutal discipline of the slave planta­ tions. Three hundred thousand Haitians were internally displaced, and tens of thousands of Haitian “boat people” fled to other Caribbean South Americav-and4;he~XJaited States. Mo.st Haitian refugees who reached U.S. shores were imprisoned in detention centers or repa­ triated. They were characterized as “economic migrants” fleeing poverty rather than granted the status of political asylum seekers. On October 15, 1994, the U.S.-led Multinational Force (MNF), a twenty-eight-nation coalition of military forces sanctioned by U.N. Security Council Resolution 94o» restored Aristide to power. Interna­ tional, national, and local humanitarian and development aid organi­ zations worked alongside the peacekeeping and humanitarian military mission to rehabilitate the embattled nation and its traumatized citizens, much as they had begun to do during the period of unconstitutional military rule. Since the 1994 restoration of constitutional order, Haiti has recommenced the process of transforming systemic and systematic predatory state practices into practices of governmental accountability

■ Figi^i'-fi U.S. military “Support Group” mural. Camp Fairwinds, Port-au-Prince. the’riaitiAn Creole text from the upper left corner to the bottom of the sign reads'asTollows: Gwoup Sipo Ameriken: American Support Group; Nap Travay Ansanm: We’re Working Together; Refe Wout: Rebuild Roads; Bati Wout: Cortsttuct Roads; Swen Moun: Treat People; Repare Lopital: Repair Hospitals; Epuy^ pi: Dig Wells; Repare Lekol: Repair Schools; Nap Travay Pou Demen Pi Bk: Wp’re Working for a Better Tomorrow. Photo credit: Erica Caple James.

ind/ffansparency. Nevertheless, it continues to struggle with ongoing political and economic insecurity. fh»i995 I arrived in Haiti to study Haitian Creole and to conduct research on religion and healing practices in anticipation of future Ph.D. wpfk in medical anthropology. Tins fiisflTvisit^o Haiti occurred nine mdnjhS after the NgJF militarv intervention and during the United Nations Mission"urHaitr~(UlSTl9SH)-pea€ekESping ”"oc^pation, a mis­

A
eetlnr^Trsuch amnnstahlFsdd^l^ad^eam environin^i. The third individual wKo~encoufag^rne to think about the chal­ lenges,of. promoting democracy, the rule of law, and justice in Haiti was ,a Belgian priest of the Scheut Mission, Fr. Hugo Triest (i93z-ioo3), a hurrian’ rights activist, journalist, and former director of the Catholic R^di'6 Soleil. Father Hugo had promoted human rights in Haiti since the,Duvalier period. He visited me at Dr. George’s home that summer' apd invited me to accompany him to the Carrefour neighborhood where he frequently celebrated Mass for disabled young adults at a residential center. .Carrefour was one of the areas hardest hit-by violence during the ^efitid of de facto military rule. In our conversations I learned about tfie: overwhelming difficulties his Haitian colleagues and he had faced 'during decades of promoting human rights in the nation. Their efforts were 1 hampered by repression and violence, the population’s overarchingyiiteracy, and the difficulties of everyday social engagements. 'Father Hugo told me, furthermore, that it was often impossible for tjiti network of Haitian human rights organizations to achieve consen*^s,on courses of action. He lamented the competition, suspicion, and indecision that some of these organizations exhibited. But he also chal­ lenged me to consider that it was not just the violations of what are viejyed as civil and political rights that were affronts to humanity; viola,,ti©ns of economic, social, and cultural rights can be equally if not more . devastating. I will never forget his words that summer: “In Haiti.misery is*a violence.”^ They remained with me as I learned how Haitian gov^menfal'and'nongovernmental actors, as well as international inter­ veners, approached the work of postconflicf transition in Haiti between 1996 and zooo. - This book examines the paradox that many of the efforts to reha­ bilitate the nation and its citizens, and to promote democracy and ' economic stability, inadvertently reinforced the practices of predation, corruption, and repression that they were intended to repair. In response ' to. the proliferation of human rights abuses during the coup years, the

8

Introduction

humanitarian and development aid apparatuses—international, national, and local governmental and nongovernmental institutions assisting Haiti through improvised as well as “planned” interventions (Ferguson 1994: 20)—offered crisis assistance to victims and documented human rights violations as they were occurring. In the postconflict period the aid apparatus generated numerous and sometimes competing initiatives to rehabilitate these.victims as a component of interventions to strengthen democracy in Haiti. .— Integral to the processes by which aid apparatuses indirectly fomented ( sociatun^t was the pernicious presence oi ensekirite (Haitian Creole for \ seemingly random political and criminal violence that 1 ebbed Md flowed in waves amid ongoing economic, social, and environ, j mental decline. Through the course of my work in Haiti, I observed how / ensekirite was experienced as vulnerability, anxiety, and a heightened ) sense of risk at a sensory level, especially by those who were most vul­ nerable. The sense of risk and vulnerability crossed racial, class, and gen­ der boundaries and even threatened members of expatriate communities 1 and agencies—whether governmental or nongovernmental—although to \_varying degrees. I understand ensekirite as the embodied uncertainty generated by political, criminal, economic, and also spiritual ruptures that many individuals and groups continue to experience in Haiti (James 2008). The V iN^ed experience of ensekirite incorporates not only the threats residing / in material space but also the perception of unseen malevolent forces that ( covertly intervene in Haitian society—^whether such forces are natural or I supernatural, individual or collective, organized or arbitrary, or domestic I or foreign. Thus another goal of this work is to capture how individual, institutional, and government actors perceive and make sense of the hid­ den or occult powers that are integral to the generation of ensekirjte.

HISTORIC ROOTS OF ENSEKIRITE

Haiti (formerly Saint-Domingue) is one of many nations attempting the transition from authoritarian regimes, civil war, colonial rule, and polit­ ical violence to a state of social and economic stability. Haiti is also generally .known as the “^rest coimtry in the Western Hemisphere.” This oft-cited negative description renders opaque the way in which interna tional and national political and economic powers have contributed to its dire state. Many have questioned why the world’s first black republic still struggles to consolidate democracy after gaining independence in

;/• Introduction

* 1864. To 'spme degree the answer is straightforward: the^jnajerity of Without- security iLis_difficult to build , Ucting^sQC4a4--fla' stfuggles with democracy. Furthermore, representations of Haiti and its pe6f>le, history, and culture directly influence foreign policies applied to • ■'

apd interventions in the nation. Me roots of Haiti’s challenges in consolidating democracy are long •' and„tieep. 1 hey can bFtfaced to eighteei^fh-cfentury colonial plantation , regnnes4ehwfeieh--tw^rsem"’e3araS^dT^ST^^ latRTTTn^fdeiHxr^HricE^il^peannret^pont^^ xhe~onIy”narion'To''successTiniiFnBerate'ltselTfronrTKe’lSXtteme brutality j ,6f the plantation regime, largely through rebellion and revolution by ' the" slave majority. Between 1791 and 1803 there were approximately I ' 45^1,000 African slaves, 40,000 ruling whites, and 30,000 mixed-race *■

Up fc B'

“persons, as well as a small population of free blacks (Lundahl 1983: 68; Nicholls 1985.: 23; Nicholls 1996: 20-21).^° In the course of the ' ' ■ ■

lo

Introduction

rebellion and revolution, the Saint-Domingue slaves overcame Spanish, nsh, and French forces (Davis zoo6: 159, 166-67). These intrepid slaves Ultimately defeated Napoleon Bonaparte’s efforts to reestab&h rench colonial domination between 1802 and 1803 and declared independence from France on January i, 1804. The country’s unique history IS related to its current troubled state. In Its quest for sovereignty, equality, and liberation from tyrannyralues promoted m the preceding American and French revolutions— a'ti entered its postcolonial era as both an outcast from colonizing and slaveholding nations and a symbol of freedom for the enslaved and colonized In 18x5 Haia-tros-ctiniprite^^ indemnity to °^jl!^^Slies-te-xoiBpensate former plantation own\J>

the revolutionary period. The indemnity agrqeSient;a condition ot political recognitionof HaitiTtadependence put an ehd to France’s attempts to reacquire its former colony but seyet^ly hampered the fledgling nation economically (Farmer 1994rh./ “ P^y tb" indemnity, the figure equaled more than U.S.$zt bUlion in today’s dollars (Charles 2003 . As Ac aiJ further tnrf-ho,. indignity, -- __ ' it was more than half a century before 1003). Haiti received formal recognition as a sovereign nation from the Vati­ can (m i860) and the United States (in i86x, after the South seceded T commencement of the Civil War) (Logan 1941: 303? Trouillot 1990: 51, 53).

practic^ the early nineteenth century Haiti’s fOSKBional leaders reproduced the colonial system of political and ecowoTte I? ” the brutal discipline of workers (Trouillot 1990: 48-5o)^s the nineteenth century progressed

pl'r “”“*atto. City-based, commercial e, and a black, rural, and military elite... was frequently such that each would prefer to invite foreignmtervention in the affairs of Haiti than to allow Its rivals to gain powe^lNicholls 1996: 8). The poor black peas­ ant majority that cultivated the land was largely excluded from political decisions but mobilized to resist foreign intervention when Haiti’s soverei^ty was challenged by the collusion of foreign and domestic actors, y the end of the nineteenth century the former French colony that was once the most economically productive in the world received two-thirds o Its imports from trade with the United States (TrouiUot 1990- 34) In Ae early twentieth «ntury U.S. control of Haiti’s import market would also be accompanied by military occupation.

Introduc^ipn

II

In the'twentieth century decades of U.S. occupation, political insta­ bility, apd economic development strategies favoring foreign investors reinforced the late-nineteenth-century position of the Haitian state and its agents as predators (Fatton 2002; McCoy 1997; Rotberg 1971; Smith 2001). The occupation also increased the nation’s dependency on imports. Between 1957 and 1986 the Dyvalieruli^ators deployed what Achille Mbembe (2003) has termed^^cropolitics’y^the power oT“ death to subjugate life—in order to controbthe-popula'tion. This repres­ sion occurred with the tacit approval of the international community because it produced a docile labor force that was available for industrial export production. The profit from the commodities that Haitians pro­ duced—items such as baseballs, microelectronics, textiles, apparel, and toys (Farmer 1988b; Grunwald, Delatour, and Voltaire 1984, 1985)— Remained in the hands of the Haitian elite and foreign business/owners. These-international and national practices of political and economic extraction are major contributoia to Haiti’s current status ^as what is widely regarded as a failed state. Predatory practices did not occur without resistance. Between 1986 an,d 1990 poor, pro-democfatic forces struggled with former Duvalierists, at times violently, to determine the course of Haiti’s future. Despite the re.ciprocal violence occurring in the period before its democratic elections, national and international observers considered President Aristide’s election legitimate. But hopes for changing the endemic oppression and corruption were dashed by the September 30, 1991, military coup d’etat. President Aristide’s subsequent protracted exile, and the* brutal suppression of the pro-democracy sector. In light of the brief history recounted thus far, it is important to dis­ cuss another set of representations that depicted Haiti’s political econ­ omy during the time of my research between 1995 and 2000. "^e World Development Report zooo/2001 listed Haiti as a “low income” country (iyofhoutof 206 economies), witR a^rosFnationSrproducr{GNP7'‘o^" only U.S.$46o per capita (World Bank 2001). The U.N. Development Pfogramme’s (UNDP’s) Human Development Report 2000 stated that 63 ,pe7cent of the population lacked access to safe water, 55 percent lacked access to health services, and 75 percent lacked access to basic sanitation. Adult illiteracy rates were at least 5 5 percent, and possibly higher. At least 28 percent of children under age five were below normal weight. Infant mortality rates were nearly 64 per 1,000 live births.. Such dire conditions have not changed much in recent years. The CIA Wprld Factbook of 2008 estimated life expectancy at slightly more than

12

Introduction

V fifty-eightyearsJofewomen and fifty-five years for men. The same report cited an^IV/AIDp prevalence rate of nearly 6 percent for the entire population of Haiti.^^ Overall, at least 8o percent of the population lives in poverty and 56 percent in abject poverty. Haiti’s current external debt is U.S.$1.3 billion, and unemployment is currently estimated at nearly 70 percent (CIA 2008). Given statistics such as these, one might ask. What, has happened in Haiti? Or, rather. What hasn’t happened? When President Aristide was restored to power in 1994, the interna­ tional community, through its multilateral and bilateral aid institutions, proposed the “development” of Haiti by instituting neoliberal economic interventions: export-led agricultural production, continued privatiza­ tion of national industries, expansion of the industrial assembly sector, and additional stabilization and structural adjustment efforts, among others.'These plans were contested, as they required that the nation and its economy be open to nearly unrestricted foreign extraction of resources‘and exploitation of “cheap” labor. Foreign assistance came priniarily in the form of loans. Such, measures meant that for the most part profits would accumulate in the hands of the elite or circulate out­ side Haiti rather than ‘‘trickle down” to build state infrastructure and improve the status Of the poor majority. While some of these efforts were implemented, ongoing political disputes in Haiti and in the inter­ national community disrupted aid flows. Aristide’s truncated term concluded in 1995 after peaceful elections. The transition that followed brought to power Rene Preval, who was once known as Aristide’s protege and who served as ptime minister dur­ ing Aristide’s first term. In 2000, as President Preval completed his fiveyear term, Aristide was reelected to a second term as president, raising hopes that the unrealized promises of his first interrupted term could finally be accomplished. But despite these indicators of the development of derpocratic processes, the international community suspended direct foreign assistance to Haiti because of allegations that the election was fraudulent. Multilateral and bilateral aid agencies filtered emergency funds through international nongovernmental humanitarian and devel­ opment aid agencies rather than disburse them directly to Haitian insti­ tutions. After the 1994 restoration of democracy, close to half a billion dollars in direct international ai^was withheld. This suspension of aid was contmuedTafter yet another escalation in Haiti’s sociopolitical instabifity. On February 29, 2004, Aristide was forced into exile for the second time. Armed forces in the north of Haiti composed of members of the terror apparatus from the 1991-94 coup

Intfoduction

period’ and other anti-Aristide actors joined together in a campaign to take control of Port-au-Prince. In this instance the international comiPurii^ did not intervene. Rather, President Aristide was presented with fhd “choice” to resign and immediately leave the country or to face more civilian killings and his government’s destruction. The unwillingness of the United States, Canada, France, and other nations to intervene in the cpikis permitted a virtual coup d’etat that Aristide sympathizers have termed a “kidnapping” (Aristide 2004; Chomsky, Farmer, and Gooditi,^n?aD64; Hallward 2007; Robinson 2007). These events plunged the ndf“i(^p into another cycle of violence, and since that time another round of'military , and humanitarian intervention has attempted to restore 'ordfe'r;Jand democratic rule. Ensekirite continues to proliferate despite ’’ (of as a consequence of) these processes. „ Haiti:^-eycfes.oIe£onomis:;ke€Tne-an44^ and criminal insecu' rityfareinextricably linked with this history of thelnasse&L§uffering and ^rstihce."or^ursejthjes£.cy©l^®F^^StrniflweT!eettt^48r^ti military, ^ftTcair^nTeconomic interventions that arejMr^^^^ed to economy. Thus crte^SaToTHait^lipparBrtaatwe-t© ’^^ conflict security must be assessed in the context of the country’s unique geopolitical and economic position. : ‘k^VEJtEIGNTY, SECURITY, AND INTERVENTION s '*

* Th'epri^ts of international relations have traditionally deployed the cp'nqepts of sovereignty and security to describe a given state’s politi, cal independence: its freedom from external interference, right to selfV ■goV’erhment, and right to protect its national interests from the threat of pthSt'Sovereign polities. Likewise, international relations theorists have conventionally considered the ethics and politics of intervention in the CQrtf,^xt of war. In the aftermath of World War II and the Holocaust, . however, the parameters of scholarship on sovereignty and related securit^i discourses have shifted. • ^he evolution of the prevailing “culture of national security (Katzepst^ih 1996) accompanied the formal development of the interna/ tional human rights regime by the Allied powers at the end of World V Wpf Tl. After the war European nations were faced with the challenge j-: pf resurrecting societies and transforming national war economies into jji ecpnPmies that alleviated suffering and promoted social, economic, and. political recovery. On June 5,1947, U.S. Secretary of State George

14'

Introduction

Introduction

Marshall extended U.S. assistance to “rehabilitate” the ruined countries and economies of Europe as a humanitarian concern—one that had a direct influence on global peace and security, as well as on U.S. national security.^3 Underlying the concern to alleviate suffering, however, were nascent cold war fears that Europeans, out of desperation, social chaos, and poverty, would turn to Communism rather than to democracy. The postwar period was also significant for the establishment of international institutions dedicated to promoting global peace, security, democracy, and human rights, alongside economic development. Gov­ ernmental and nonstate actors alike began to affirm that the security of individuals and groups residing within a sovereign nation was a matter of international interest rather than a matter solely of domestic policy, a concept currently understood as “human security” (Rothschild 1995). On October 24,1945, the U.N. Charter was ratified. It created an inter­ national institution committed to global peace and security; to justice, human rights, and equitable social and economic development; and to protect citizens from the repressive acts of their own governments. At“ the state level, membership in the U.N. required, among other things, that a government promote and protect human rights. As a consequence, states must also agree to external surveillance of their domestic affairs. Such monitoring could result in interventions in the affairs of sovereign nations that were violating such rights. The international human rights regime codified ideals for regulating interpersonal, institutional, and intergovernmental interaction through the December 10, 1948, ratification of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights (UDHR) and the subsequent ratification of covenants, charters, statutes, and other legal instruments. Through such efforts human rights stakeholders have, in effect, defined what it means to be human” in universal terms, even as these definitions remain hotly con­ tested. As has been noted by numerous scholars of the human rights regime, vigorous debates continue to unfold around issues of culture, gender, and individual versus collective rights; a tendency to privilege the surveillance and enforcement of “civil and political” rights over the “economic, cultural, and social rights”; a Western or “Eurocentric” orientation to foundational human rights documents; and historical debates over the lesser influence of later entrants into the U.N. system after World War II (the newly independent postcolonial and postsocial­ ist states, among others). In the decades since the inauguration of the formal human rights regime, the dynamic nature of conflict and the plurality of settings in

I


*^^‘^g^-"gg^ggg7gnry^ien'^hdr ongoin^rug^e£v^^S5j^^g«^^*d^ ,ere2fecaite«iaa^Ue€e»d^teiT^ testimo f . By fall 1998 the organization had grown in influence and gained j greater political visibility. In a proposal for funding submitted to the Ministry of Justice, the Fondasyon promoted itself as an umbrella

The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

107

io6

nrffanization for victims’ associations, with representatives in seven oAitte departments. During the rime of my res^ch the otgamzatton

remained closely linked with MICIVIH s M AP V . Bureau Boursuites et Suivi pour les VicUmes The Government of Haiti had limited capacity to snecific programs and funding but remamed an influennal broke

between local, national, and international aid through partnerships with institutions such as the u u > The state’s practices and initiatives to remedy the suffering o ai i vX □d also render the state subject to charges of corruption, „X and processes that can be recognized ,s bureaucraft. In fall 1997 the’Ministry of Justice began to consult with nLiLal human rights organizations about its intent to "SuWish the

Bureau Poursuites et Suivi pour les Victimes (Proceedings an o up Office for Victims, BPS) through which to begin implementing som of the recommendations of Haiti’s CNVJ. Organizations that participared in these consultations included the Justice and Peace ^he Human Rights Fund, MDM, M’AP VIV, Fondasyon 30 Sektan , the Bureau des Avocats Internationaux (Office of Internationa awvers BAI) the Aristide Foundation for Democracy, victims orgamzabons tom all parts of the country, and various orgamzations within “mS'feniaUy announced the establishment of the BPS in a pre! release ol February X3, rpp8. The release hsted

■ episodes and patterns of systematic terror to which Haitians had been subjected in recent years. After cataloging categories of victims of poll

cally motivated brutality, the ministry stated: The Haitian population is thirsty for justice. The history of our judicial St “maLed by the negation of law and by

aooaratus . To overthrow the state of general demal ol justice, to beyond lenterrerj crime, injustice and to establish a true democracy, it is necessary to work against the culture of impunity.

The BPS was designated as the state institution that these goals, as well as distribute reparation to victims. The mi try provided the BPS with 6o million gourdes, approximate y

. •

iriillion at the time. The funds were allocated for legal, medical, and ^bhomic assistance and a public media campaign to help victims gain Justice. Other aims of the BPS were the following: to build sustainable spfcial peace through the reestablishment of judicial authority founded tin'the rule of law and the legitimate use of force, to prevent the reemergencfe of summary justice, to guarantee the rights of the person to life an^ physical integrity, to promote the spread of fundamental human rights, and to restore public confidence in the powers vested in the state. ' ‘ prom 1997 to 1999 the BPS provided medical assistance primarily by^ brokering referrals to other programs that offered medical care to Victims of human rights abuses, in particular, the Human Rights Fund. Xfiktim received direct care through the HRF medical referral network . ^is^ssed below. Because of its limited capacity, the Haitian state did nol^’distribute direct economic grants or reparations to individual viktiin. Assistance was, therefore, collective and infrastructural. The BPS j^^tiibuted the CNVJ report, met with victims’ organizations through­ out the nation, helped victims with the preparation of legal dossiers, ^nti’ funded some of the development efforts of victims’ organizations. PFofoinent among the organizations receiving support was the Fondks)^on 30 Sektanm, founded by Frangoise Boucard. . ' addition to working with national and international partners, the Bps funded projects to build schools and distribute school materials. It al§pj'financed projects to rebuild homes that,had been destroyed dur! he coup years in the Northern, Artibonite, Western, and South­ ern. Departments. Furthermore, the, BPS established memorial sites and : “^pported the struggle for the demands for restitution [revendica^ tiOfis]” of the society’s majority (Ministere de la Justice et de la Securite RuBJigue 1999: 6-7). Over the course of its activity from 1998 to 1999, "whe^n the BPS closed in the heat of controversy, these funds sparked ' competition and contention among victim advocacy groups. Disputes f pyet" these funds would also contribute to the untimely demise of the Hunjjan Rights Fund Rehabilitation Program. ;p.S.-FUNDED POLITICAL DEVELOPMENT PROGRAMS

Many of the victims’ assistance and advocacy groups described above [wfeff considered Haitian “civil society” organizations, even as their mb^bership, founding partners, and supporters were local, national, |aild‘international. There were also parallel “Haitian” victim assistance

institutions more closely tied to U.S. governmental efforts to promote

The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

io8

democracy and human rights in Haiti. The presence of U.S.-sponsored programs providing aid to others who were considered victimsur ther politicized and polarized the aid apparatus. Among these efforts, the ADF Human Rights Fund was a controversial, ambiguous, and ma leable institution with which many of the afotemennoned individuals and organizations would eventually collaborate. Rumoi; gossip, accusa­ tions, and scandal about this institution, its personnel, and its programs jn Haiti would emerge within flows of speculation about U.S. politica development assistance abroad.

The Human Rights Fund I Just days after the leaking and dissemination of the April r z, 1994, U.S. Embassy memo, the CBS 60 Minutes news program aired in Haiti,” an eipose that further damaged the reputatmn of the United States as a supporter of human rights. The piece began with an mtetview of the coup’s leadei; General Raoul Cedras, who appeared disaffected and unapologetic when confronted with Haitian and international human rights groups’ reports of killings, tapes, and disappearances o Haitian activists. The expose also highlighted how the U.S.-backed eco­ nomic embargo had far more of a negative impact on the poor than it had on the military regime.® , „ The program presented an interview with Emmanuel Toto Con stant that was especially damaging. Constant is the son of one of Duva­ lier’s former generals and an intimate associate of the repressive police chief during the coup years. Colonel Michel Fraiioois He is known as the founder of the FRAPH paramilitary organization, despite allegations that the United States was involved in forming what it called a PO cal party.”^^ On October ii, 1993, Constant and members of F^PH successfully faced down the USS Harlan County. They prevented U.S. forces from docking and disembarking as had been agreed in the plan to restore Aristide to power, the July 1993 Governors Island Accord, n his interview with Constant, Ed Bradley asked hbout this victory over the most powerful armed force in the world. EB:

Did you think on that day you were standing up to President

Clinton? EC; Yes, because he’s the one that gave the order directly to the Harlan County to move and come to. Haiti. So in fact, there was

something between Clinton and me.

S The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization I*''

b t i I I I I I I■

109

EB (voiceover): And on that day, if it was between Constant and the president, then the Haitian won. Yo everyone’s surprise, a day later, the White House aborted the mission. Washington was fearful that American soldiers might be^attacked and killed if the Harlan County tried to dock. Sen. Tom Harkin (D-Iotva): Just think about it. Here we are, the— the most powerful military nation on earth. No one can even remotely challenge us. And a rag-tag bunch of thugs, less than a hundred of them, turns back a United States ship. And if they say 'they rolled President Clinton, well, I guess they did.

I After the embarrassing failure of the United States to restore democracy as planned, human rights abuses reigned unchecked. In the face of such I a loss to the “rag-tag bunch of thugs,” the honor, strength, masculinfe ity, and competence of President Clinton and the United States were at R stake. Where did the Human Rights Fund fit into the picture? Jhe U.S. Mission in Haiti began plans to provide direct assistance to E viktim in Haiti in the aftermath of these public scandals. The allegations E of.,U-S. involvement in the coup d’etat against Aristide and the failure » to restore democracy in Haiti contributed to the creation of the Human E Rights Fund: » K K K K K H

Haitian credibility placed on U,S. concern for human rights is low. The ^project is designed to demonstrate the commitment of the United States for ,the protection of human rights in Haiti, and to help alleviate pain and suffering of the victims whose rights have been abused. To regain and build tJSG credibility as a human rights leader, an immediate and significant change in the size and scope of assistance is called for through the Human Rights Fund (the “Fund”). (USAID/Haiti 1994)

K Assisting Haitians at this juncture was crucial to the image of the H United States, Aiding individuals and families who might otherwise K; haVe lost their lives trying to reach asylum in the United States was in ■theory a step toward building U.S. authority or standing with Haitian ■ civil society. As discussed above, there were implicit (or covert) dimen- 1 ■ sions to this humanitarian concern. One rationale for aid was the need K tp sepure the United States against a potentially threatening population ■ of Haitian refugees. Furthermore, supporting these individuals was ■ presented as a potential strain on state and federal resources. Thus ■ the original Human Rights Fund (HRFI) was created in July 1994 and ■ housed in the ADF. R

no

Th6 Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

Figure 3. America’s Development Foundation Headquarters, Port-au-Prince. Photo credit: Erica Caple James.

The creation of the Fund fueled accusations of occult motives for U S military and humanitarian intervention in Haiti on the part of Hai­ tian and international human rights advocates that became more con­ centrated as time progressed. Since the early 1990s the ADF’s Integrated Project for the Reinforcement of Democracy in Haiti (Projet Integre pour le Renforcement de la Democratic en Haiti, ADF PIRED) had been promoting democracy. During the coup period PIRED staff pro­ vided informal emergency relief to Haitians who were targets of politi­ cal repression. Staff members sheltered internally displaced persons at their homes and on the grounds of the ADF physical plant in Port-auPrince. ADF PIRfeD staff members also helped persecuted grassroots activists gain asylum in the United States through an in-country pro­ cessing program that had been initiated in February 1992.. Rumors about the activities of ADF, PIRfeD, and eventually the Fund indicated the flourishing of a negative speculative economy in which the truth was an object of contested power and knowledge. In discussions with staff members who worked at ADF during this period, I was told that the involvement of PIR^D personnel in facilitating asylum applica­ tions for Haitian activists and intellectuals was politicized. Grassroots pro-Haiti activists spread rumors that the asylum program was covertly

' *^1^6 Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

in

gathering intelligence on Haitian activists. Secondarily, these activists alleged that the goal of the program was intended to “decapitate” the democratic movement by sending its active members into exile. Even ■ years after its inauguration, accusations about the PIRFD program and the, institution through w:hich it was implemented circulated in the print ^edia and in discourse among grassroots NGOs and the Friends of Haiti. /t-i-Iji part, the opacity of bureaucratic procedures and concerns about '^theigctors who implemented U.S. foreign policy and development strategies in Haiti may have contributed to suspicions about ADF and the Fiind. The U.S. government funded HRFI with congressional approval a&^n extension of ADF’s “Cooperative Agreement” with USAID/Haiti.^^ It‘^';Staff compiled a database of human rights abuse cases that were perpetrated during the coup years. In addition to this, HRFI provided 'emdtgency support to victims of persecution in Haiti from July 1994 ' until February 1995. The bulk of the assistance was distributed between July'.and November 1994. Aid consisted of “critically needed services, jifqjpiding urgent medical care and trauma counseling, temporary hous­ ing,'safe haven and subsistence allowances, and legal aid, asylum advice ajiti prison monitoring to nearly z,5oo families, including over 700 direct victims of violence” (USAID/Haiti 1995: i). The standard weekly stipend for an eligible family of four was 256 gourdes—approximately 'U.S.$i5 at the time. Some additional payments were given so that fami*’'li& could find shelter (USAID/Haiti 1995: 6). The Fund paid for sur^"gfeties for acute trauma victims through its affiliauon with CITYMED, ‘■^n’organization with USAID support that had emergency and primary car|’clinics in the capital and rural areas. Counseling services were proVi^M to victims through the Centre Medico-Psycho-Pedagogique, an institution under the direction of a Canadian psychologist. HRFI also prq^tided financial assistance for the burial of victims: at the request of JtSf fi,eneficiaries, the Fund underwrote in whole or in part the cost of fW^ty-eight funerals. As the crisis period shifted to one of consolidafionj; reports of human rights abuses decreased; presumably, there was less need for emergency assistance^ In mid-February 1995, therefore, HRFI shifted its emphasis to civic education training. By June 1995, ^heii- HRFI was terminated, USAID claimed that it had trained more tfiah 740 Haitian civil society organizations in the use of its materials (USAlD/Haiti 1995: 8). ■ Tfie HRFI initiative was rejected by the majority of Haitian rights grbp^s from its inception. Late in April 1994 the U.S. Mission in Haiti ■serit a.series of letters inviting these groups to participate in “roundtable”

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The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

While thanking those who wanted to give me this honor I must make a point of saying that [participating] is not at all possible. A,:c this I say as L individual as well as in my capacity as an emeritus leader of the huma

fights community in Haiti.

The additional July 31, i994, response to Crandall by Father Hugo Triest on behalf of the Platform contained pointed critiques that will frame part of the analysis in the remainder of this book: • While appreciating your effort I find myself, however, in a position that does not permit me to accept your invitation. ... Here is why it is impos­ sible for me to accept: . • Saying that the Fund is “the fruit of dialogue between the Haitian Human Rights Community and the American Mission who had been invited to sit around a Fund that is already pre-established and

functioning” ‘ • Not wanting to negate the need to come to the aid of victims of the repression, it is, however, much more important and necessary to work to cease the massive violations. Neither direct assistance nor programs of education will replace the need to take measures to put an end to this situation.... I fear that the Fund, in focusing itself on the victims, will drown in the efforts to heal the symptoms mstead of the illness. What are USAID and the American Mission doing to combat the causes of abuses? Embargo. Sanctions. Refugee Policies? All those who are m

power today in Haiti are precisely those who destroyed the emergence . of democracy in December 1990. How is it that they are still in power after three years? Yes, it is necessary to bury the bodies, bufby not putting an end to the forces of destruction it is to compromise with ... delaying tactics that keep this situation [in] crisis.

p I I

L I I I I r

This .statement was written before the “restoration of democracy” by the U.S.rled MNE Nevertheless, it emphasized the need to address political artd structural inequalities in Haiti rather than the symptoms of social unrest and ensekirite. Father Triest’s response recalls both Agamben’s and, Boltanski’s respective critiques of humanitarian acts described above that selectively recognize “victims” in their capacity as sufferers in moments of crisis or emergency. Combating the causes of abuses that contributed to multiple forms of victimization, however; was not easily undertaken or resolved with this foreign peacekeeping mission. The process of postconflict consolidation in Haiti is one that reveals the many corxflicts between international and national governmental and nongoveriimental actors over truth, sovereignty, and the meaning of democracy, as well as definitions of human rights and issues of political recognition.

L America’s Development Foundation i In addition to criticizing the process by which the Fund was established, ( |/Haitian human rights groups and their international partners ques-

I tioped the covert motives for the effort while criticizing both USAID r and ADF/PIRfeD as institutions. As I discuss latep this pattern of accuI sation and questioning of truth and hidden motives was something I that also occurred within the U.S.-funded development realm between I actors in federally funded institutions. What was problematic about I ADF? According to its institutional literature ADF was established in I 1980 as a tax-exempt, private voluntary organization (PVO) “dedicated I to a^isisting the international development of democracy” through Fundr ing from “USAID, the National Endowment for Democracy (NED), I, international organizations, private foundations, corporations, and i individuals In a proposal to seek additional funding for one of its I Haiti projects ADF states that its “expertise is in assisting civil society K , organizations (CSOs) to build democratic societies and the rule of law” I (ADF 1999: i). I According to NGOs that are highly critical of U.S. foreign policy, I ADF was not always focused on overseas political development assisi' tance. GroupWatch reports that “prior to 1988, ADF focused on projects

I I / / /

rucrtPf}! rAV I

discussions on the Fund’s design. They were invited to participate as members of an advisory board that would act as “the conscience of the . Fund ” In response to these invitations, the Platform of Haitian Human Rights Organizations (La Plate-Forme des Organizations Haitiennes des Droits de I’Homme) wrote U.S. Ambassador William Lacy Swing to inform him that as a human rights consortium it could not align itself with a foreign diplomatic mission. No collaboration was possible, espe­ cially given that the April iz embassy cablegram had not been clearly and categorically disavowed” (Platform 1994)- At stake were questions of power and knowledge: not only was the Platform’s reputation as experts on the human rights abuse crisis still discredited by U.S. actors, but the Platform rejected the ethical challenges of collaborating with an institution that was funded by the very government purported to have covertly orchestrated the terror between 1991 and 1994A July 21,1994, letter that once again invited the participation of the Haitian hun^an rights community in the Fund was similarly rejected. On August 1,1994, the national executive secretary of the Episcopal Justice and Peace Commission (Commission Episcopale Nationale Justice et Paix, JPC) responded to USAID Mission Director Larry Crandall:

113

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While ADF’s “self-presentation” might seem benign and positive, 'Haitian pro-democracy activists and their grassroots foreign support­ ers criticized the controversial organizations with which it worked. The Washington Office on Haiti (WOH) also expressed concerns about ■Adf’s programs in Haiti:

that helped people in the third world nations feed themselves, throng

improved nutrition and increased agricultural production .. ^wi . . PL 480 and Section .1.6 food assistance programs of the RS. Agency for

International Development (AID).”“ By the late 1980s ADF was increasinsly focused on political development assistance abroad. Other civil society advocacy organizations that monitor the funding that the U.S. government grants as part of its foreign assistance have remarked that ADF’s position as the institutional host for the Fund was problematic: ' This Fund is to be administered by a group whose patent orgamzanon was intimately involved with AID’S (and the National Endowment for Democ­ racy’s) now-disavowed activities in Central America throu^out the 1980 s. Development Foundation (ADF) created FIRED (Pro,et Integre de la Renforcement de la Democratie fsicj) as the__uml ment unit of AID’S “Democracy Enhancement Pto,ect which began 1991. As demonstrated in Central America, “democracy more properly termed democracy intervention, whether Wed b^1W m die controversial National Endowment for^Democracy nor NED has any credible track record in human rights. (WOH i99.4-

ADF has two major NGO’s in Haiti, IHRED and PIRED.. . . IHRED “’ (Institut International d’Haiti de la Recherche et dii Developpment [sic]) Is ^presented as a Haitian NGO dedicated to research and civic education pursuits. In fact, it was founded in 1986 with a $100,247 grant from NED l;o the Institute for North South Issues (INSI), a “non-profit” NED-funded organization founded in the early 1980’s and dissolved when the IranGontra hearings clarified its role as a channel for illegal funds.... IHRED vigorously involved in promoting U.S.-favored candidate [Marc] Bazin ...both before the 1990 elections and after the coup. (WOH 1994: 19)

P'h^ve not been able to determine the exact relationship between INSI afiff" the IHRED project, or whether INSI was a subcontractor of or , 'separate institution from ADF. Nevertheless, in its critique WOH goes ofi’tb make an interesting point:

emphasis in original)

ADF was controversial in Central America for receiving grants directly from the National Republican Institute for International Affairs (NRI)“^the Republican Party’s channel for NED fcndmg-m order to assist U.S.-backed Nicaraguan opposition groups.^" ADF began working in Haiti in 1985 shortly be ore Jea Duvalier was ousted as “President for Life.” Its institutional teramre states that between 1985 and 1991, ie NED-funded civic educaO

work in Haiti consisted of examining issues of democratic, economic and social development witR“embeW the government, the nonprofit sector and private ciUzens. ADF, with partner Haitian CSOs [civil society organizations], helped citizensi lear about the importance of being able to voice one s opinions. The second phase of this^activity led up to and followed the adoption of a democra Constitution for Haiti in 1987- Technical and financial assistance was provided to Haitian NGOs with widespread and nationwide nety^rks grassroots organizations to undertake civic education to ii^truct Haitians in basic democratic principles and the content of the new Constitution. This led to ADF support for Haiti’s electoral process through voter registra­ tion activities, get-out-the-vote programs and civic education program Z cXforlation needed to participate in Haiti’s first democratic elections in I99i"

28

115

•

** ■ ■^he kind of “democracy” sought in democracy enhancement is not one which reflects self-determination, real grassroots participation, or the interests of the poor majorities in Third World countries.. .. Democracy more properly termed democracy intervention, evolved over t$e past decade as a primary nonmilitary mechanism of low intensity con‘iflict. (WOH 1994: 20; emphasis in original)

i^ccording to this watchdog group, “assistance” and “intervention” are linked and sometimes identical in twentieth-century U.S. policies and practices in the Western Hemisphere. Strategies to achieve political and economic security for the United States often conflict with and contra­ dict notions of security articulated in local" realms such as Haiti. Thus another important point to consider is how democracy and se'qqrity are conceived and by whom. A speech given by former Secfet^ry of State Madeleine Albright during the Clinton administration prpvides initial answers. In October 1997 Albright gave the keynote gddress at the conference “Promoting Democracy, Human Rights and ' l^eiptegration in Post-Conflict Societies.” The following excerpt outlines ’^hc’rationale for American participation in “peacekeeping, humanitar­ ian relief and development”—activities that are sometimes arbitrarily separated both conceptually and in practice.

ii6

•

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The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

In March 1999 I interviewed David Hunter, an anthropologist and controversial former employee of ADF,^^ who at the time was working wjth another political development assistance project funded by USAID, in order to gain additional perspectives on the relationship between dem­ ocratic development and economic growth. Hunter was a charismatic expert on political development who typified the bureaucratic “sorcerer” or'the ethnographic “spin doctor” (Geschiere 2.003)—especially in his ability to shape-shift between the realities of rural Haiti and the halls of USAID/Haiti. The interview provided context for how NGOs became invplved in exporting democracy but also the hidden or covert ways that policy is created and implemented. In the interview I asked about ADF’s politics, rationales, and practices of political development assistance. Hunter discussed some of the mistakes that USAID had made in entering the democracy assistance sector in Haiti in the late 1980s:

We do, after all, have a security interest in preventing conflicts from re­ igniting, spreading across international borders, drawing in regiona powers and creating a risk that our armed forces will have to respond to. We have an economic interest in opening new opportunities for American commerce, and in preventing new demands on the resources we have availa e for emergency relief and refugees. We have a budgetary and social interest in helping the people of other countries to build a future for themselves at home, instead of being forced—out of fear or desperation—to flee to our shores. We have a political interest in helping post-conflict societies to embrace democracy and to bedome part of a solution to. global threats such as proliferation, pollution, illegal narcotics and trans-national crime. Finally, we have a humanitarian interest in helping those who have survived the cauldron of war or—in a case such as Haiti, the cruelty of repression— to revitalize their societies. (Albright 1997)

Albright states that U.S. domestic security, economic and political, is the key issue in overseas interventions. Peacekeeping, humanitarian relief, and economic development are expressly, interdependent: these inter­ ventions target refugees or internally displaced persons for assistance, relief, and management, in order to promote economic productivity not only within the nations receiving assistance but also as potential new markets for American commerce. Furthermore, Albright presents a neo­ modernist vision of America’s manifest destiny. It is America’s mandate to promote and protect democracy, not only in the Western Hemisphere, but also throughout the world. In this secular theology, democracy and capitalism bring salvation and are the logical endpoints of all nationa

development. . . In May 1999, in conversations with USAID/Haiti personnel in its Economic Growth program, we discussed how the United States con­ ceived the relationship between democratic development and economic growth. One of the directors of this office offered a perspective that countered the official political rhetoric of the United States and affirmed that while the promotion of democracy buttresses economic develop­ ment, it is not essential, given that many nations have become economi­ cally successful without democracy. This individual also affirmed that conflicts often arose about foreign policy toward Haiti between USAID s ^development strategies and the U.S. Department of State’s intention that economic growth occur through export-led development. Conflicts in the rationale for economic intervention tended to disproportionately benefit the business interests of foreign investors in Haiti and only indi­ rectly strengthened the Haitian state’s infrastructure and the economic and political welfare of Haitian civil society.

117

EJ: So you just mentioned that AID has had more than one democracy initiative. ... At what point did AID include democ­ racy or sustaining it, strengthening it at all as part of its mission? j ’

J i ? ; [

;/

j

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i'

DH: Well, AID started way back in 1985 with a minimalist democracy program. . . . Their first support—project support— went to an institution called IHRED, the Haitian Institute for Research and Development!,] . . . headed by someone ... who came out of the development sector, where he had once worked for the Haitian Development Foundation in a rural credit program. [He] was an up and coming young, bright guy who formed . his own institute with the notion, I believe at the time relatively sincerely, of promoting open debate on Haiti’s political situation and conducting a variety of research projects. It was his own little . . . “business,” you know in quotes, in the context of devel­ opment. He’s still a player. He subsequently went on to a position which was somewhat compromising during the coup period, and he’s now . .•. relatively associated with the far right. . . . In retrospect it seems, and no one could have known this, that AID made a big fatal error, not a fatal error, but a poor choice in terms of its initial assistance vehicle in democracy because the guy’s later actions tended to be picked up by critics of U.S. policy. And accusations of continuing support to IHRED during the coup period, for example, and even following the coup period, . dogged the AID democracy program over the years. Even at the time that we were establishing the Human Rights Fund it came

P S’

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The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

back to haunt us in terms of misperceptions within the human rights community that we were still working very closely with IHRED, when in fact we had not been. And ADF was involved as an institution for a long time and maybe way back when under the IHRED program, in fact, in the democracy sector. And ADF is also sort of a small business .. and it’s operated like a small business.... But Michael’s [ADF President Michael D. Miller] background actually is in naval intelligence.

EJ: He admits it. DH: Noj exactly, it’s not a secret. That also may have been a • poor tactical choice from the point of view of USAID if they had

known what was going to happen. It’s very easy to criticize in retrospect. But at the time that they started in 1985 it was clear that Duvalier was on his way out. AID was looking—as was the U.S. government I think—to a sort of rapid transition to the technocrats who had recently returned to Haiti with Marc Bazin at their head. But Marc Bazin, I remember, brought back Leslie Delatour . .. and the Americans’ plan—^to the extent that it was a coherent plan at all—but their expectation was that with the fall of Duvalier, a more rational portion of the elite spectrum would take over. Marc Bazin came out of the World Bank and was very highly respected, Delatour came out of [the] Chicago Economics program, and they didn’t foresee anything like what’s going on herd now. They can’t really be faulted in retrospect for not having prepared themselves or positioned themselves prop erly for what was coming. I don’t think anyone really expected this quite that early, back in ’85.

Hunter’s statements emphasized the ambiguity of U.S. intentions, whether to assist or to intervene, as well as the unpredictability of t e political, social, and economic environment in which the United States operated. As discussed in chapter i, the goal of promoting democracy was not one that had been present historically in U.S. foreign policy toward Haiti. Thus one might evaluate USAID’s political development assistance as a form of recognition of Haitian capacity and and the choice of personnel and procurement structures with hidden political backgrounds as a matter of poor judgment. When ADF’s president, Michael Miller, came to Haiti to meet with the staff of ADF/Haiti, staff members and I had dinner with him on a

Th^e'Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

119

number of occasions that shed light on the ideology of the relationship between democracy promotion and economic growth. He was open to ascertain extent about the path that led him to democracy assistance Work; noting that as a young man he had served in U.S. Naval Intellig^Ce. Subsequently he worked with Vice President Nelson Rockefeller’s initiatives to expand trade relations between the United States and Latin Ad^rica. Prepared by his experience in business, he established ADF dArifig the Reagan administration. When President Reagan announced that the promotion of democracy abroad would be a significant focus ’ d,ufjng his tenure in office, ADF began to pursue funding for democracy afidiCivil society work abroad. - In.June i98z President Reagan announced an initiative called “PfojCC^Democracy” before the British.Parliament as a “war of ideas” meant ;t^ piinimize the threat of worldwide Marxism-Leninism (Carothers T99a: 2.00). By February 1983 the project was presented to Congress for approval but received tremendous criticism for its overtly propagandjstic rhetoric. Two months later an independent, bipartisan initiative called for the creation of the National Endowment for Democracy, “an Uipbrella organization that would disburse most of its funds to four Subcomponent organizations operated by U.S. labor, business, and the bemocratic and R.epublican parties” (Carothers 1991: 204). Eventually i Jn^re acceptable to Congress than was the Project Democracy, this ini■ "tigitiye began operation in 1984. \ After the cold war the emergence of newly independent states (NIS) Jh^endered the reformulation of the rationale for USAID’s assistance . dlaload. The new strategy was b,ased on the idea that political (demo­ cratic) development must accompany economic development. Thus political development assistance—electoral assistance, judicial reform efforts, legal aid, human rights work, local governance strengthening, an^ other forms of “capacity building”—is still relatively new in the USAID development arsenal. '• 'USAID increasingly outsourced its projects to for-profit and not-for• profit NGOs that were willing to compete for contracts in its devel­ opment portfolio. These contractors are often U.S.-based management ' consulting firms or NGOs such as ADF that have experience in infra■gtlqctural development, especially agricultural reform. Initiatives like AbF/PIRfeD were among the first organizations federally funded as part t bffcthis accelerating governmental trend to assist “transitional societ’ J. i'es.” Like the Democracy Enhancement Program or USAID’s subsequent njultimillion-dollar Administration of Justice Program (AOJ), these U.S

The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

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government-funded projects ate lucrative, even when the parent institu­ tion is a nonprofit charity or PVO like ADE The institutional procure­ ment structure for these projects receives substantial indirect funding for overseas management. ,,,11 u ttcatpi The history of Hunter’s development work sheds light on how USAID made the transition to promoting- political development assistance, as well as whether it involved overt or covert military and huinanitarian intervention. In addition, his statement raises questions ab^t how the United States viewed the prospects for democracy m Haiti. On another level, however. Hunter’s political development work raises ethi­ cal questions about the uses of ethnographic knowledge and the role of anthropologists as activists, advocates, interlopers, spies, or even mobile

sovereigns t>f a different kind.^® EJ: So in ’85, do you remember what name the democracy effort was given? I’ve seen names like the “Democracy Enhancement Program.” I’ve seen “Democracy Initiative” . . . DHi The Democracy Enhancement Program didn’t start until 1989. That, I can give you the whole history on that. ... Any­ way, IHRED got the first grant. EJ: Around then wasn’t ADF involved in . . . DH: ADF was the intermediary, but that was after the fall [of Jean-Claude Duvalier]. Then . . . toward the end of 1985 obvi­ ously things heated up here. I had the opportunity at that time to be in an informal working group that was comprised entirely . of anthropologists—actually and this is just nasty stuff. It’s great that you’re going to ruin my reputation. Ummm, we were called together. We happened to all be in the country on various other activities. I was managing the agricultural project then for AID, _ was managing the PADF [Pan American Development Foundation] portion of that program for AID, and actually you should be discrete about naming the people I am naming in your

work ...

EJ: rd ask for permission. DH: You can name me, but you’d need to talk to them or not. . . . Anyway, we had a little kitchen cabinet for the ambassador at the time. [Ambassador Clayton E.] McManaway was a career diplomat who was intelligent enough to try to find something out about the country as it was coming apart. And called upon

The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

12.1

us—obviously amongst a bunch of other people—to talk through basically on a weekly basis what the administration—^where they were headed.... And at the time the Reagan State Department rigorously opposed the removal of Jean-Claude Duvalier. They were quite comfortable with Duvalier’s regime, they had as we learned subsequently made considerable investments in intel­ ligence assets in the Haitian Army and in the Duvalier govern­ ment; and—^Anyhow we were meeting with McManaway, and McManaway was getting a lot of resistance on direction from the State Department concerning keeping Duvalier in place. And the fear at the time—as old-fashioned as it seems in retrospect from the point of view of the State Department, in addition to trying to preserve its assets and investments here—was that Haiti would be prone to a Communist takeover in the -wake of the fall of the dictatorship. Our job as we defined it amongst ourselves, the anthropolo­ gists, [was] to disabuse the ambassador of this notion and to explain in very clear social scientific terms that. . . that was not ' ‘ a possibility for Haiti, given the structure of the land tenure system, given the social organization, given the country’s history, that wasn’t even a dim prospect. We may have even oversold that case, but we were all quite firmly committed to moving beyond Duvalier—we didn’t quite know where. ... So McManaway learned from us and began parading us in front of State Depart­ ment officials who came down during that time at dinners and all sorts of other things to make his case once he was convinced that we needed to go forward. . . . And so it was that I was somewhat t involved in the advent of the dechoukaj and then essentially went through it like everyone else who was here at the time. Quite happily. It was a very interesting time. = Hunter was controversial within the pro-democracy sector for this prei vious work with ADF and USAID. He was also, however, a key actor in ! the creation of HRFI and subsequent iterations of the program. A brief ; history of our first meeting is relevant to this discussion of how bureaucraft evolved over time in the aid apparatus in Haiti. In early 1996, before I began working at Chanm Fanm, I had been ' criticized by a few American pro-Aristide activists for citing Hunter’s. ! wqrk in a 1996 manuscript, “‘Political Cleansing’ in Haiti: 1991-1994.” i These activists claimed that Hunter worked for the CIA—rumors that

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The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

he openly discussed but never confirmed or denied. His notoriety cen­ tered in part on having been involved in political development as an anthropologist, reviving criticisms of anthropology as a discipline with historical links to colonial and imperial projects (Asad 1973)- ^bese accusations , also stemmed from the critiques of development as a discipline.3^ j had also heard, praise of Hunter because of his hurnamtarian work with victims of human rights abuses during the coup years He was instrumental in aiding grassroots activists who were persecuted between 1991 and 1994- Hunter and his wife, Patricia Roberts another anthropologist working with a project funded by USAID, had hosted internally displaced Haitians in their home in Haiti during the coup years. Hunter was also integral to the formalization of the PIRED cri­ sis work as the HRFI program, which was in some respects a formal mechanism for the United States to provide limited reparations and institutional support to Haitian viktim. I first discussed victim assistance work with Hunter m tai 199 when we met at the Haitian Studies Association meeting in Haiti. By chance I happened to sit at his dinner table on the first night of the conference. Seeing his name tag, I realized that I had cited him m my manuscript. We spoke about .my therapeutic and ethnographic wor at Chanm Fanm, and he offered to introduce me to an organization o rape victims who had survived during the coup years by hiding in caves in the mountain range that ringed the capital. I also told Hunter about a victim assistance proposal based on Dr. Thomas and Dr. Manata s work with the MICrVIH Medical Unit that was going to be presented at the

conference the next day.^^ Dr. Thomas and Dr. Manata were critical of the supply and distribu­ tion of postcoup reconstruction assistance. International financial insti­ tutions and bilateral agencies such as USAID directed tens of millions of

dollars toward “rehabilitating” and crafting hew Haitian state institu­ tions and personnel-for example, the former military and^new^^civilian police forces. Millions of dollars were funneled through USAID s AOJ Program and other neoliberal programs to modernize Haiti’s infrastruc­ ture. Few funds or technical support were earmarked to assist the poor population that the coup regime and its agents had terrorized. Thus t eir proposal was intended to redistribute postconflict aid to “true” victims. Hunter and another colleague at ADF, Marcus Belmonte, attende the presentation. After its conclusion they approached Dr. Thomas and Dr Manata and the four agreed to work together to find funding tor what would become known as the Victim Assistance Rehabilitation

1x3

program. The ADF Human Rights Fund became the structure through jwhich USAID funded the rehabilitation proposal in April 1997. The Rehabilitation Program was proposed as a temporary project that wppld build the foundation of a permanent independent institution. It was intended that Haitian health professionals in collaboration with health professionals in developed countries would administer this new “Structure and that national and international funds from both private J atid jpublic sources would endow it. Despite these intentions, the Reha■’'bijitation Program was hampered not only by its institutional location ’^yitfiin ADF but also by the unintended consequences of other U.S.■isqpported “victim” rehabilitation programs in Haiti. .HAITI’S OTHER “VICTIMS”

'^en President Aristide returned to office, the Haitian army was disItiantled. A major issue facing postconflict transition efforts was how ^t^ reconcile the repressive force that had terrorized the Haitian masses f dqting the coup years with the viktim they had targeted. In 1994 USAID ^\^?eied the Office of Transition Initiatives (OTI) under its Bureau of Hujtnanitarian Response. In September 19945 j^^t prior to the entrance of the U.S./U.N. peacekeeping mission, the OTI designed a program to .4^rriobilize and reintegrate FAD’H rtiembers into Haitian civilian society. 'The program operated between November 1994 and November Z 1^96. It provided stipends and six months of vocational training to for+ jjn^r military personnel on the condition that they disarm, with the hope i that.they would find gainful employment as civilians. The U.S.SS.y mil1? lion effort was reportedly “paid by the Haitian government from foreign .dpnor government balance of payments relief” (Dworken, Moore, and I §ie|ei 1997: i). The International Organization for Migration (lOM) I' ^in^^Jlemented the program. Of the estimated 7,000 soldiers in the arm}^ |"’645‘o were “demobilized” and 88 percent (5,482.) of those registered with the lOM; however, “only one FAd’H officer participated in the j' program, and most of the soldiers* did not enter training until after the t U.^. military transferred the operation to the United Nations” (2.-3). Of tfipse who participated, 4,867 graduated, but only 304 found employr .m^nt through the Opportunity and Referral Service. ■ ?),

The low employment rate among the former FAd’H is due to poor economic conditions in Haiti, lower-than-expected economic growth, and the stigma of being a former soldier. The essential determinant of reintegration ,and security, though, is Haiti’s economy. Without a stronger economy, the

The Aid Apparatus 4nd the Politics of Victimization

12,4

former FAd’H will remain unemployed, alienated from society, and a pos­ sibly disruptive source of insecurity—though not one capable of toppling the government, (3)

USAID felt that its program was instrumental in creating breathing space”: the democratic process could be consolidated and protected from the threat of violence that former FAD’H members represented (3). Nonetheless, USAID acknowledges that the program had limited suc­ cess because of its uneven coordination, its faUute to link with other aid programs, and the limited participation of highdevel Hmtian officials. Understandably, representatives of the legitimate Government o Haiti and other assistance projects that were supporting t e transition to democracy” would hesitate to be associated with such a program. However another factor in its limited success was that former soldiers

viewed themselves as “victims” of the democratic process. Despite several efforts, lOM was unable to introduce civic educatim^ into the program (the FAd’H continued to view themselves as enntled victims of an unjust dismissal). There were also no systemuPc attempts by lOM to promote the efforts of some schools to foster local reconciliauon through local projects, although lOM tried to support such programming. (Dworken, Moore, and Siegel 1997: emphasis m original)

Supporting the view that the Haitian armed forces had been victimized former president and commander in chief of the Haitian army. General Prosper Avril, described the entrance of the U.S.-led peacekeeping mis­ sion on September 19, 1994. He called it a day that was “even more ignominious and shameful than the day of July Z9,1915 inception of the 1915-34 U.S. occupation], because at this tune the occupation of the country occurred by the will of a Haitian who, in order to attain his own goals, abused the legitimate authority given to him by a man­ date of the Haitian people” (Avril 1999: xxiii). Avril accused President Aristide of betraying the nation. Furthermore, he castigated the work of other Haitian scholars who had written on the army as “accusations, as a search for scapegoats or indeed as designed to only discredit the mi 1tary institution, which they tend to accuse of being responsible for the confused and chaotic situation of Haiti” (xxviii). Correspondingly, Avril called the Haitian army the “mute victim” of the democratic process (3Zi): “My thesis is different. I am convinced that even though many members of the Haitian army committed errors, a great many errors, or had a reprehensible conduct, the military institution itself is necessari y a victim” (xxviii).

^The Aid Apparatus, and the Politics of Victimization

,12.5

Avril’s assertions represent the perspective that the army had been Lhumiliated, emasculated (or perhaps even “raped”), and was without ; a voice to protest. Nevertheless, the army received extensive assistance ’ and preferential treatment in the immediate postcoup period in the con' tejct pf a virtual amnesty for the military and its affiliates.^^ These per­ sonnel also received positions in the new government.

I Policing and Public Security

In addition to the program to rehabilitate the former FAD’H, the United p States supported a program for “victims” from both political specL trums—an interim policing force that would have devastating consej quences for Haiti’s ongoing ensekirite. This example also demonstrates 1 the qse of scandal publicity to diagnose causality or assign blame for the ^. continuing insecurity in Haiti. In the uncertain political and economic I climate, allegations of bureaucratic incompetence and occult motives I for action, as well as blame for the failures of aid, flowed freely in print land public discourse between the United States, the U.N., the GovernI ment of Haiti, and human rights NGOs. I In October 1994 the U.S. assisted the Government of Haiti in forming I the Interim Public Security Force (IPSF), comprising mostly former memI bers of FAD’H (U.S. Congress 1996: 10). The United States attempted a

ff vetting process to screen out perpetrators of human rights abuses during I the coup years, but perpetrators were rarely identified. Former soldiers I were throvvn together with another group from the opposite end of the I political spectrum: interdicted Haitian boat people from the GuantaI namo detention camp. Both factions received minimal training in public I’ security to support the MNF (U.S. Congress 1996: 9). These individuI als, representing anti- and pro-democracy actors, perpetrators and victims, were funneled into the U.S. Department of Justice’s International I Criminal Investigative Training Assistance Program. ICITAP was one of I the primary institutions recruiting and training the new civilian Haitian I National Police (HNP) (HRW/A, NCHR, and WOLA 1997: 3-4)I On March 31,1995, the MNF withdrew most of the 20,000 Amerir can soldiers who had disembarked in Haiti. The U.N. Mission in Haiti r (UNMIH) took over as the primary peacekeeping force. By October 12, I 1995, in a total U.N. peacekeeping contingent of 6,000, only a smaller r force of 2,500 U.S. soldiers remained (HRW/A, NCHR, and WOLA I 1997: 4j U.S. Congress 1995: 17). The transfer of the mission from I the MNF to the U.N. had profound consequences. The U.N.’s civilian

1"

police contingent (CIVPOL) was among the institutions responsible for • the new Haitian National Police. Human rights organizations raised questions about the competence of this body: “We are . . . concerned that CivPol field monitoring of the HNP does not appear to have been effective in preventing or stemming police abuse and the CivPol o cers repeatedly defer their responsibility for human rights monitormg to the human rights observers of the U.N./OAS International Civilian Mission” (HRW/A, NCHR, and WOLA 1997: 4)- Furthermore, an insufficient number of officers had been adequately trained to provide security when the external peacekeeping missions ended. The U.N. rec­ ommended that the GOH permit former FAD’H to tram as new police. This decision was made against the advice of the United States. The United States eventually cast blame for the failures of the Hai­ tian National Police on the U.N- and the Haitian government. On Janu­ ary 4 1996, the House Committee on International Relations held the hearing, “Haiti: Human Rights and Police Issues.” Robert S. Gelbard, then assistant secretary of state for International Narcotics and Legal

the Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

1x7

and-cultural approaches to policing proved problematic. Under the ■“m^rit-based recruitment” strategy, psychological and medical tests were administered to identify appropriate candidates and to exclude former perpetrators of criminal activity and human rights abuses. These diagnosfi£> .procedures, like the technologies of trauma employed by MICIVIH and Qther human rights groups, can be questioned for their validity. All 3 candidates were reportedly vetted for past criminal acts (U.S. Congress £996^ 10), but despite such precautions, the international conflicts over the Erection and tutelage of the police in particular and Haiti’s demo­ crat® process generally created the conditions for a future struggle for powfer that would embattle Haiti’s civilian communities. * \i As can be expected, in the months after the first class of civilian , pplice had graduated and began acting as agents of the state, additional ; rfepohs of human rights abuses surfaced. Conflicts between HNP fac! tipns played out throughout the country and contributed to the escala< tiptV'of ensekirite in Port-au-Prince. Such abuses also were the impetus fpr the revival of the Human Rights Fund in 1996 as a victim assistance fFptpgram for persons abused by the HNP.

Affairs, stated: While we understand that the United Nations based its recommendations on feedback from its corps of Soo police monitors serving in the field, we nevertheless differed in our assessment and in our advice to the GUH.. . . rWle hold our deepest concern over the inclusion of individuals m the HNP’s ranks who may have committed criminal acts. We will not support a force which harbors criminals in its ranks. (U.S. Congress 1996:12.)

Violent conflicts erupted between factions within the HNP, especially in Martissant and other contested areas. These battles contributed to a per­ vasive sense of insecurity, and they were an indirect consequence of the lack of coordination and consensus among international interveners, unintended consequence of this aid intervention was fighting between the HNP and gangs for control over crime. This is also an example of how occult economies can develop from political economies of trauma. In addition to the U.N. forces and ICITAP, however, there were other national security forces involved in crafting the HNP. American, French, Canadian, and Haitian government representatives recruited rnen and women throughout Haiti to meet the initial goal of five thousand candi­ dates (U.S. Congress 1996: lo)- At the Haitian National Police Academy, U.S. police officers, members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and French police instructors conducted the training. I was told y one of the officials managing the ICITAP program that the differing national

Human Rights Fund II ■' • -fl i In July 1996, in response to reports of abuses perpetrated by members ^.oLtkemew “U.S.-trained” Haitian National Police force, the Fund was ; reapfivated under ADF’s Democracy Enhancement Cooperative Agreernipt. Under HRFII, victims of human rights abuses who had been J';Wgeted after January i, 1995—the date when HRFI ceased assisting byictlSms of abuses perpetrated during the coup years—^were eligible for dirfeet medical, legal, and psychosocial aid.^"* U.S. efforts to build or tcraft; “local capacity” by encouraging nonviolence and the rule of law ■ ;;;,“^re Striking examples of neomodern development discourses. They are ^;,also additional examples of how suffering can be appropriated (Das ■ / ‘1995; Kleinman 1995; Kleinman and Kleinman 1991) transformed !? .tp create an image of accountability or legitimacy for the donor at the same time that there was authentic desire to do good by helping Haitian I victims of organized violence. p .J[he recognition of the trauma and suffering of Haitian victims of I hilpian rights abuses perpetrated by the HNP occurred in the aftermath "of another public scandal. New accusations appeared in the U.S. media criticizing the U.S. government’s failure to train a responsible Haitian ^/civilian police force that respected human rights. The media leveled

V /uauufU fo

The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

1x6

XI >

iz8

The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

charges that the Human Rights Fund was a screen for covert activ­ ity. The reporter Tammerlin Drummond went to Haiti to investigate the HNP crisis in response to a report issued by Human Rights Watch/ Americas, the National Coalition for Haitian Rights, and the Washing­ ton Office on Latin America titled “Haiti: The Human Rights Record of the Haitian National Police” (HRW/A, NCHR, and WOLA 1997). Drummond’s article,- “A Constabulary of Thugs,” which appeared in Time magazine on February 19, 19975 was a devastating critique. It charged the United States with complete responsibility for the failures of the democratic reconstruction process in Haiti. Drummond had interviewed HRFITs director, an American sociologist who vacated the position in June 1997. The article pointed out the irony that the U.S. government spent $65 million of taxpayer money to train the new police force. Now taxpayers supported another U.S.-authored program to protect people from these same police. Drummond did not provide a detailed history of the HNP, nor did she discuss the involvement of the multiple international and domestic actors involved in the institution. Rather, she described the case of a Haitian man who had been shot by the police without cause. After his family complained, they became the targets of threats and needed pro­ tection from police brutality. Fearing for their lives, Charles’ cousin and brother finally did what many Haitians are doing these days when they find themselves abused, tortured or terrorized by the police. They paid a visit to the offices of an organiza­ tion called the Human Rights Fund. The group offers a number of services^ including a special protection program for people who have been savaged by police officers whom the U.S. recruited, trained and turned loose on the streets of Haiti in July of 1995. This, needless to say, does not come cheap. But fortunately there is a ready source of cash. That s because, like the officers who commit these crimes, the program to shelter their victims is funded by American tax dollars. Up until now this program remained a closely held secret within the community of American and U.N. officials who administer Haiti’s billiondollar reconstruction effort.... It was in the spring of 1996, say U.S. officials, that “we began receiving a lot of reports of killings and torture.” At this point they started casting about for a way to protect the people who had witnessed these crimes. The solution was the Human Rights Fund. With the help of a $500,000 appropriation, the group has .paid for the funerals of ii people killed by the police in the past seven months and for the medical care of another 60 who were beaten or wounded. The fund also has enabled witnesses to disappear quietly by providing them with safe houses, legal aid and a stipend for living.

^ifhe Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

129

Sometimes, however; this protection is not enough. Shortly after one of Jean Bernard Charles’ relatives moved into a safe house that the Human Rights Fund had rented for him, four men forced him into a white Nissan pickup truck (the same type of vehicle driven by the Haitian National Police). They took him to habitation Leclerc—a remote field where the former mili­ tary used to torture people. There the men broke both his knees and razored hi^ back. When officials of the Human Rights Fund arrived at work on Mon­ day morning, the man was slumped on the front stops. One ear was hanging from the side of his face. He is in hiding again. (Drummond 1997: 62-63)

I U§AID and the American embassy were incensed by the depiction Ibf the Human Rights Fund project. They questioned the Fund director labout his portrayal of the institution and its history in his interview Kwith Drummond. In a 1997 memo titled “Account of HRF’s Contact |withTime Magazine,” ADF states: In response to more general,questions posed by Ms. Drummond during the interview, the Fund director traced the history of the Fund as well as describing for her the nature of HRF’s collaboration with the MICIVIH, NCHR and other prominent institutions with explicit human rights conperns in Haiti, both governniental and non-governmental, and the HNP Inspector General’s Office and Special Investigative Unit (Brigade Crimiriel).... In this context was also highlighted HRF’s contact with the Haii' ‘tian Senatorial Justice and Human Rights Commissions. There was never a question of the. Fund’s activities being secretive as reported in Ms. Drumt mond’s article, except to the extent that HRF’s casework is treated with f considerable discretion in order to protect victim’s privacy and safety.^^ !. [Emphasis in original]

'

I

|ln«the early months of 1997, therefore, the Human Rights Fund still llac^ed “credibility” with both the Haitian and international human Irights communities, making it an example of U.S. “failures” and “incom­ petence.” On some level the Fund’s visibility made it an easier target pThaLn the Haitian state, the failures of which were considered so perva­ sive that it remained invisible or shielded from the criticism. It is in the I context of this politically charged and highly scrutinized environment f that Negotiations took place to house the new Rehabilitation Program Irat 'the Fund. The addition of former members of the U.N.’s defunct I Medical Unit, and advocacy by the various actors, and external circum­ stances described above, enabled the Fund to be extended from March [ 1997 to June 30,1997, then again from July i, 1997, to June 30,1998. l ADF received an additional $500,000 for the Fund—not including the ? funding for indirect costs that it received to manage the project—which J-brought the total moneys received in direct costs to $i million.

The Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization

iMe“ Aid Apparatus and the Politics of Victimization '•-.J

«• SE-

The process of implementing victim assistance during the crisis and postconflict period was thoroughly politicized, from the “international realms of politics in the U.S. Congress and the United Nations to the “local” or grassroots realm in Haiti. Each aid institution or program operated within an administrative structure that required the demonstration of accountability and competence to promote postconfhct development as well as to promote the institution’s security, whether . political or financial. Each institution or organization had a mandate, I whether explicit or implicit, that generated technologies of trauma. Such technologies were employed to recognize, categorize, and authenticate the experience of “victims” according to a number of enters. Once vic­ tim status was recognized, this client identity yielded social and material forms of compensation, whether for “perpetrators” or their “victims. Such processes were politicized and contested. 1 Throughout this aid apparatus, accusation, counteraccusation, rumor, and gossip flowed concerning the competence and motives of ' institutions, their policies,- and the persons charged with executing these policies. Political auditors^human rights organizations and other watchdog agencies—employed both ethical and scandal publicity to mobilize response and have garnered considerable, power to challenge government practices in the domestic and international arena. Ironically, although some Haitian rights groups and their international partners emphasized the failures of U.S. and Haitian governmental initiatives in their reports, they quietly collaborated with them, both as institutions and as individuals, even to the point of accepting federal funds. The processes depicted in this chapter characterize nascent aspects of bureaucraft in the domain of victim assistance. It is a politics of truth, knowledge, and ethics as debated by direct and indirect means through­ out the victim assistance apparatus. Absent so far from this analysis o bureaucratized forms of aid within the governmental and nongovern­ mental realm is a depiction of the lived experience of encountering these institutions as a client, patient, or viktim. In what way did the i^^idious presence of ensekirite affect the assemblages of humanitarian and devel­ opment organizations and victims’ advocacy groups? How does trains manifest itself, and in what way does interaction with the diverse tech­ nologies of trauma shape or craft suffering? What is the process of shift­ ing from militan to viktim? What are the long-term consequences of these interventions and their failures versus nonintervention?

13 1

it ;A( each institutional node in the governmental and nongovernmental ■yi’ctM assistance network faced the challenge of limited resources to faddress the chronic and acute needs of victims of all kinds, the institui tioi^AL pressures mounted, as did the frustration of the beneficiaries of ^ithese'institutions. Consequently, viktim scrambled to meet their needs iras'bbst they could, given the ebb and flow of aid. I consider these ques(Mi^iisTn the following chapters as I moved among Chanm Fanm, the Humn Rights Fund, and the Martissant community. 11 *

,

I Routines of Rupture and Spaces of (In)Security CHAPTER

I

3

Routines of Rupture and Spaces of (In)Security The ghost is not simply a dead or missing person, but a social figure, and investigating it can lead to that dense site where history and subjectivity make social life. ... Being haunted draws us affectively, sometimes against our will and always a bit magically, into the structure of feeling of a reality we come to experience, not as cold knowledge, but as transfor­

mative recognition. Avery F. Gordon, Ghostly Matters

I

Viktim experience psychosocial trauma while grappling with the ened state of social risk that ensekiritej creates. Living with Haiti s ensekirite worsens traumatic suffering, especially for viktim who do not have social and institutional forms of support. For many viktim, contin­ uous traumatic stressors, what I call^4itines_ofrupm^XJames zoo8), exacerbate psychosocial suffering. These are multiple ongoing disrup­ tions to daily life rather than single traumatic events after which there is a “post-,” as suggested by the conventional notion of posttraumatic stress disorder. The experience of ensekirite has political, economic, legal, social, and spiritual dimensions. Ensekirite reflects the degree o fragility individuals and social groups feel in everyday life. Through discussions, physical therapy, and participation in therapeutic groups with traumatized women and men, I learned to see that the e^wiraoe of ensekirite is^endered^ Although I did not provide physical therapy iTHahian men who were targets of human rights abuses, my inter­ views and participation in therapeutic settings with these viktim suggest that development efforts with a gender focus must direct their interven­ tions to both sexes, as well, as to family systems, m order to achieve human security. I3X

13 3

The sociologist Anthony Giddens (1984: 375) defines “ontological

I security” as “confidence or trust that the natural and social worlds are las they appear to be, including the basic existential parameters of self I and' social identity.” An individual experiences security when there is I autonomy of bodily control, bodily integrit}^ and a “sense of trust in the I contiiiuity of the object-world and in the fabric of social activity” (60). I The routinization of daily life creates the sense of security. That sense I is the fundamental ground of embodiment, agency, and, ultimately, the ^reproduction of social structures such as the family The notions of rouItinization and predictability of daily life are integral to analyses of sub-

K jective experience in secure and insecure environments. if The reality of ensekirite is that constancy, safety, or trust cannot be B^ssumted for either the individual or the group, especially not for the Kjpoof living in the slums of the capital. In the context of chronic political B^nd economic ruptures one cannot take for granted that social instituBtions are permanent. On the contrary, ontological insecurity forms the re^rqund of subjectivity when ruptures of routine social institutions and jKractices are the rule (Giddens 1984:.6z). When ruptures are routine H^d arise within an overall climate of political and economic instability, Kve must ask how the broader societal “nervousness” (Taussig 1992.) influences the experience of subjectivity and embodiment on both the ^Individual and collective, levels. H I introduce here the concept of sttgees ofto .descri^e^t^ Bkpeutic interventions thaA^^^^ted .sp^at^FanSjt^ipqral intervals or B^reakrTn the otherwise unremitting ensekirite of Port-au-Prince. In ■^Sgsi^TOrnporary''§pacerofex^ption viktim gave traumatic testimony Bbefore witnesses and foiind healing, reparation, and political recogniH^ioii.'This chapter begins with a narrative of my introduction to the RWomen of Martissant by the grassroots development and human rights B^fganizations that were assisting them. I pr'esent the ontological ground Kf ensekirite in a brief history of Port-au-Prince and Martissant. I then B^ap the terrain of embodied ensekirite by outlining concepts of emo|Kion',Tllness, and eijxbodiment-thatJklearned in therapeutic contexts with ^fcaifians. The ‘^nsory biographies^Desjarlais 2003) of women to ■whom I provided^hysical-therap'y at Chanm Fanm reveal the complex ^pived experience of Haiti’s ensekirite for its poorest citizens. I then presBsnt traumatic testimonies of men with whom I participated in therapy |feoups at the HRF Rehabilitation Program. I conclude with an analysis ^Rf another space of (in)security, the November 1997 International TriBhunal against Violence toward Women. The event was one that revealed

134

Routines of Rupture and Spaces of (In)Security

the political economy of trauma, as well as the occult economies that

emerge within them. women’s rights under HAITIAN LAW

The birth of the Chanm Fanm clinic was the culmination of transnational and international advocacy work by the Haitian Women’s Association and Mothers Across Borders. In fall 1995 I learned-of the joint initiative to create the women’s health center from Judy Williams, a friend with whom I had been studying Haitian Creole in Boston. She had worked in Haiti and Central America for many years as a nurse-midwife and women’s reproductive health activist. She provided her expertise to help establish the women’s clinic and kept me apprised of its progress. Among its routine clinical services, there would be training programs or fanm saj (lay midwives) to professionalize their skills and introduce interna­ tional best practice standards. Clinic staff were being recruited from the

state school of nursing and among health practitioners. Judy knew that I practiced the Trager Approach and that I planned to conduct research in Haiti. I immediately agreed when she asked if I would consider volunteering to work with rape survivors at the Martissant clinic in Port-au-Prince. In the months preceding my arrival, she introduced me to the MAB executive director and staff and a Boston­ based human rights lawyer who were jointly compiling legal human rights dossiers on Haitian women and girls who had been raped between 1991 and 1994. At that meeting we discussed the physical therapy work

that I would provide once the clinic began offering care to women, as well as my interest in researching gender violence m Haiti. The clinic . opened on March 8, 1996, International Women’s Day. In July 1996 returned to Haiti to work with rape survivors at Chanm Fanm. When I arrived in Port-au-Prihce, the DRC was sponsoring a series of residential seminars on the topic “Women’s Rights under Haitian Law” for women’s organizations from rural and urban areas and tor three groups of rape survivors from the poorest areas of Port-au-Prince Staff members of MAB, the DRC, and the HWA decided that it would be best for me to meet the women with whom I would work at Chanin Fanm by participating in these seminars. The morning of the first day o the training, DRC staff picked me up at the home of my hosts, a Haitian family living just outside downtown Port-au-Prince. I will never forget the look of shock that the women wore on their faces when they arrive

Routines of Rupture and Spaces of (In)Security

13 5

an,d Saw me. Although I was a blan, a foreigner, as they had anticipatefd,' I was not blan—white. I also spoke passable Haitian Creole at “thi^ stage. After a few laughs about their foiled expectations we were on *|)ur.,way to the seminar that was being held at the DRC offices—a large hoi^c in a residential section of upper Delmas. After introducing me to many of the staff members, they led me to the main room where the : trashing would take place. Already seated were some of the participants : with'whom I would develop close relationships over the next four years. ■?/ Marie sat against one wall. I introduced myself as an American stu! den^;interested in gender issues. I explained that I would be providing a ^fo^iirof physical therapy during the workshop and at Chanm Fanm for t the-fest of the summer. She immediately spoke up and asked me quite |sh^ly, “What can you do for me? I have an infection in my vagina Won’t go away..Can you do anything for that?” Taken aback by her Icli^enging tone, I said no, the work that I did was more for stress and &iher physical pain but that I’d see what I could do to help. |, ’\^nother, woman approached me, one with whom I developed a Ireseafch collaboration that was later to end badly. Sylvie Saint-Fleur tiny woman whose willingness to speak up, at times quite critiFcUly^ more than compensated for her size. She attended the training fetis her fourteen-year-old daughter, Natasha, who was called bebe ftbdi^^se she was deaf and mute. A group of young men in the Martisfea^^'neighborhood had gang-raped Natasha earlier that year because Keri$sability prevented her from speaking. Sylvie and her family had i;Wso„Sbeeri victimized during the coup period, but I didn’t learn more ohdht their stories until a few weeks later when we met in the privacy ijibf fhg clinic. Sylvie approached me with an offer of calculated friendfe^h- 'She wrote me notes on her daughter’s behalf and boldly told me fepaV^Jatasha wanted my friendship. She needed help to go to a school KH|[t ^ecialized in training people with disabilities. I told Sylvie that we. Kd^ld talk about it at Chanm Fanm after the seminar had concluded. K' ...^y this time the room had begun to fill with many women who »elo|iged to one of the support groups for rape survivors. Our facilitaKOf .was a young Haitian human rights activist and lawyer from the Facral't;y\6f Law, Met {maitrci attorney) Stephanie Joseph. She had helped KheBpston lawyers prepare the women’s human rights dossiers in order feo,. present their cases to the Inter-American Court of Human Rights. B'Af'fhis training session, however, the focus was on imparting everyday

Routines of Rupture and Spaces of (In) Security

136

their daily battles against personal injustice. The facilitators introduced me to the group as a foreign student interested in questions of gender relations in Haiti, someone who would also be giving “massage at the Martissant clinic to aid their physical and emotional recovery. I later demonstrated the Trager work during the training and gave abbreviated

physical therapy sessions to participants. The seminar opened with a discussion of parental responsibility. Some of the participants had been in long-term, stable relationships, but the majority spoke about the difficulties of raising their children without sufficient support from their partners. As previously discussed, women are known as the potomitan—pillars—of the Haitian family.^ Sex and gender ideals place expectations on Haitian women To main­ tain the conjugal household, care for children, and manage the house­ hold economy. Women also supplement the economic activities of their male partners in small-scale trade, domestic work and, more recently, in employment in the assembly sectors of urban Haiti. Partners often abandoned women who were raped, as well as chil­ dren who might have been conceived from rape, because of the associ­ ated shame—especially in the aftermath of the 1991-94 coup period. During the group discussion a woman asked if there was recourse under the law to force a man to take care of his children, even when there was no birth certificate verifying paternity. Her child’s father disavowed his status. The woman lamented in-exasperation, “I can say for myself that I don’t understand what’s in the law, but I know that if I have a chil with a man he should take care of that child. If he doesn’t take care of the child we know that we don’t have priority with him.” There were also cases in which a partner denied his own children by saying that they were the rapist’s, even when there was no ambiguity in the timing of conception. Sylvie added with much bitterness: In reality, even when men acknowledge their paternity [bay yon pitit batiste-a] they do not take care of the child, because I’ve seen near my neighborhood a friend of mine who is married. Her spouse left her with six children and four others who.aren’t hers. Because .. . when you see that you’ve had children with a man, whether you’re married or not if ... you go to an officer of the public records bureau [ofisye leta stvtl] to lodge a complaint in order to force him to help you with the child, you know what the judge will say? “Woman, men never will give you what he hasn’t already. Why would you have children with him? You know that [justice] here is not like overseas, so you just have to accept it [ou oblije

reziyen-u>’].”

^.j^ytines of Rupture and Spaces of (In) Security

137

Sylvie^ neighbor Denise added; I sv’jfelany times when you’re married to a man and he acknowledges the "'children, all of the responsibility falls on the woman. At one moment things i* ■’\;an be fine between you, but sometimes a partner can become jealous and ; then leave you and find another woman. I have eight children and I’ve I never found a man who’ll take care of me.

‘‘■i,

discussion then shifted to an aggrieved chorus of protests about L^Q^Their partners had failed or betrayed them. This patterned narrative t s^^lC What I call a discourse of lament, is characterized by frustrated tes^Jrtiihpnies of betrayal, rejection, vulnerability, and loss. It was a common Ifoode of expression that I would encounter in one-on-one, group, and 'i; public discussions in daily life. Discourses of lament recall Fiona Ross’s ^,^60^) discussion of women’s testimonies in the South African Truth ■ an.|* Reconciliation Commission. She describes their narrative style as ^'lamentations, fornis of sorrowing and grieving” that was a product of ^^hq.gendered division of mourning practices (51,180). it Discourses of lament also resemble Atwood Gaines and Paul E. ■’^.^hjer’s (1986) concept of rhetorics of complaint. Gaines and Farmer ^u;^jeyed cross-cultural idioms of distress. They describe a form of com^;^timcation in Mediterranean cultures through which individuals nar(Tdte"'Jives of routine suffering and victimization, what Goffman (1959) ' refer to as a “presentation of self.” Such laments are meant to f^aiy^ate the self and to establish self-worth publicly while forestalling ifiumdr, gossip, or accusations about the state of an individual’s fortune, b" tfi ( Flh the Mediterranean, one seeks to minimize the perceived risk of fallre'■ ihg 'prey to supernatural and natural forces, the latter including the envy J dnd jealousy of others, by presenting oneself as unfortunate, battered by the,winds of fate and scarcely able-to continue the struggle for life. The mj9ropolitics of social life in the Mediterranean governed by gossip . .. i\. "demand that individuals conceal good fortune and-demonstrate their wor’khipess by a rhetoric indicative of a lack of success or good fortune. One i’i balizes a social life of problems or mundane developments which try ’’to patience. (Gaines and Farmer 1986: 305)

^fWbpd and Gaines note a general style of complaining meant to ward ^^ff^sppernatural, natural, or human-authored adversity. Haitian wom^Ei’s'larfients of everyday suffering have some of this character. They also a pattern that Farmer observed in the mid-1980s in his clinical (W^J^.with AIDS patients in rural Haiti. The downfall of Jean-Claude ^livaiier opened space for general complaints in political discourse that

•M z! J

3 '-inHUMi'

138

Routines of Rupture and Spaces of (In)Security

influenced the way people talked about the appearance of AIDS (Farmer 1990: II). Similarly, women viktim linked human rights abuses they suffered during the coup years to more general dynamics of sex and

gender in Haitian society. , Byron Good (1994: i47) similarly presents the notion of rhetorics of complaint in his analysis of Turkish epilepsy narratives. Stories of trag­ edy and illness were “plotted”—temporally structured—and “emplot__ ^recounted or performed for readers or witnesses in order to determine cause, course, meaning, and modes of redress, as well as the connection between incidents of suffering and individual and collective life events (144, 148)." As I began to study Haitian women’s narra­ tives of embodied misfortune and life histories of suffering, I observe a similar pattern. Many narratives had a temporal sequence or plot in which routine stressors culminated first in a crisis and then some form of resolution through the intercession of interveners. Good (1994: 143), drawing on Victor Turner’s (1957) theories o performance and social dramas, observes, “Narrative accounts, along with ritual, efforts at legal redress, and other social dramas, are orga­ nized in relation to the contradictions structured into societies . . . that [become] evident at moments of breach and crisis.” Some of the con­ tradictions embedded in Haitian society are the gaps between the ide­ als of the sex and gender system and the real limitations the majority of Haitians find in meeting the expectations of their communities of responsibility. Individuals who have lost or who lack agency to perform these expected social roles feel tremendous pressure and stress. Such thwarting (Moore 1994) can'influence the negative actions a person may perpetrate or suffer. Thwarting also influences the experience of

trauma in gendered ways. ’ In this analysis, however, I distinguish discourses of lament from rhetorics of complaint. Laments are not simply positioned rhetorics meant to deflect envy or to establish public worth, saintliness, or mar­ tyrdom in the face of misery. Similar to Douglas Wood Holland and Jane C. Wellenkamp’s (1994: 2.2.1-2-z) findings in their ethnographic work with Toraja villagers in Indonesia, the prevalence of misfor­ tune in Haiti makes discourses of lament relatively straightforward accounts of life’s challenges. That having been said, these accounts sometimes had a performative or persuasive dimension (Robben 1995), I even as they were also tales of authentic crisis. Multiple bureaucratic I discourses and professional practices crafted or transformed general 1 laments of suffering to make them efficacious as “trauma narratives

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(Jaipes 2.004). Through the work of interveners, stories of suffering ’were'molded, tested, and transformed to validate victims’ suffering as authentic according to preestablished criteria. The work of transforinafidn also demonstrated the competence and accountability of the mteryener. The trauma portfolios of which such structured narratives bec'dihe part could also permit the victim and the brokers of suffering to gain social and material capital. When discourses of lament were articulated in the workshop on . ^fcomen’s rights, I did not yet recognize the narrative structure as signifii^nior patterned. Despite the prevalence of such forms of communica"tj.on, “Other participants who witnessed these performances sometimes i^allenged them. Met Joseph interjected two crucial statements to disbupt;4:he growing negativism in the discussion. The goal of the seminar, )|he said, was not simply to voye woch sou gason (criticize men). Rather, i|t was for us to critique the situation that exists in society: “It is a fact ^at because men doubt women they may not take care of the chilWe’re not saying here that men are not good, but we’re going to leno’unce what isn’t good within society. There are men that aren’t good 5 ,1

bTlie^ocial relationships between the Iwa, the ancestors, the family, and plfe individual are multifaceted. To some extent these relationships can tbedfescribed as embodied. However, the concept of the body and suffer­ ing in, Haitian Vodou challenges Western conceptions of trauma (Young If■ !>s

‘

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1995), and even of chronic pain (Jackson 2000), that locate suffering in

the discrete, embodied individual. Generally, tfc embodied “pers^ as historically conceptualized in Haiti comprises multrplrpMtsfTIie gwo bonanj is a nonmaterial force, consciousness, or energy that shadows or doubles the physical being. It is able to detach itself from the body during sleep (Brown 1991: 3 5i-5^; Dayan 1991: 51; Deren 1970 [i953^ 2.5-2.65 Larose 1977: 92-; Metraux [1959]: 12.0, 303 ). It also detaches itself during the course of pos- . session by the Iwa and returns after the Iwa has completed its intended action (Bourguignon 1984: 247). Located in the head {iet}, the gwo bonanj is vulnerable to rtiagical attacks, especially at death, when it may become a “disembodied force wandering here and there,” known as a zonbi (Larose 1977: 93). The immaterial zonbi, like the Iwa, can possess the individual as a malevolent spirit who seeks a permanent home, until it is dispersed by ceremonial means. But before the ritual dispersal has occurred, it can also be. sent by a relative to avenge a wrong or injustice (Larose 1977: 95). A sorcerer can also capture the gwo bonanj when a person is alive. In this case, it is also called the zonbi. It can be used to force the material person to whqm it belongs—literally, the living dead—to labor for the sorcerer. The ti bonanfis an energy or presence that is deeper than consciousness but can enervate the individual in times of stress (Brown 1989: 265; Larose 1977: 94)- The kb kadav is the material body that is separable from the spiritual essences and sub­ ject to decay and dissolution (Brown 1989: 265-66; Dayan 1991: 51). Finally, the nanm is the animating force of the body that disappears after the death of the individual (Brown 1989: 264). Conceptions of the emotions and their effect on health are also related to the notion of the individual’s tet, the repository of the gwo bonanj and the seat of the Iwa who is its master. When an individual is emotionally distressed, he or she may describe that experience by saying that the “big guardian angel” is upset (Brown 1989: 264). Furthermore, “when an individual is worried, his or her head is said to be ‘loaded. In excitement, the head heats up; when the head cools, the individual becomes calm, also sad” (Bourguignon 1984: 262). San (blood) is the mechanism that regulates heating and cooling in the body. The balance of hot and cold in the body directly affects an individual’s susceptibil­ ity to illness (Laguerre 1987a: 70). The state of equilibrium of hot and cold is determined by the foods that one eats, action on behalf of the individual, or environmental factors (Laguerre 1987a: 70-71). The rela­ tionship between the interior and exterior of the body, the blood, and

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the,emotions is dynamic. Thus when one. considers the impact of local behavioral ecologies on mental health, the bounds of the self must be viewed as extended or permeable.^^ Subjectivity in these contexts is complex. The embodied subject is one whose social relationships and environment are constitutive aspects of the person. However, the consequences of the complex selfZsoul mean that' disruptions in the relational webs between the individual, commu­ nity, ancestors, and the Iwa may result in disorder, illness, or other mate­ rial and spiritual problems, not only for the individual, but also for the extended family. Relational obligations are sometimes sources of threat to the self, even as they are also sources of blessing and healing. Failure to uphold these obligations can result in illness or misfortune for the person who-'is directly guilty or for others within the community (Metraux 1972 [19.59]: 256). Likewise, sources of embodied pain and suffering extend beyond the material and temporal boundaries of the discrete corporeal individual to the environment—both physical and metaphysical—and to ascending and descending kinship and spiritual networks. ' In my physical therapy work with Haitian women, the sensation and interpretation of acute and chronic suffering was frequently articulated as “Full body pain.” As Michel Laguerre (1984: ia5-2.6) affirms, full body pain often has complex roots: “Because of a belief among Haitians "that when one is ill, the whole body suffers, the location of pain at a par­ ticular moment is not particularly important, especially since diseases may shift position. In addition, the causes of pain that are suggested by 'patients do not usually comport with biomedical ideas of causation ^i(‘gas,’ for example).” Indeed, the notion of van (wind) or gaz (gas) was ^one I would become familiar with. Some of my clients described the fsicnsation of chronic pain as having gas or wind in a particular organ ■or, vessel such as the “stomach” or “head.” Laguerre writes, “Gas can feccur in the head, where it enters through the ears; in the stomach, iiwhere it comes in through the mouth; and in the shoulder, back, legs, or |app'endix, where it may travel from the stomach. . . . When gas moves [from one part of the body to another (gas kap macbe nan do-m), pain is [produced” (120). Furthermore, van nan tet describes a feeling of heavy[Meadedness or tet fe ntal (headaches). One client asserted that the sensa­ ltion of pressure in her head had made her whole body pired (rigid or Istiff), but the feeling disappeared after the Trager session. In addition Ito this, my elderly clients typically described the feeling of tay fe mal Klow back pain), sciatica, or forms of joint pain associated with old age. iMany clients for whom the work was effective immediately reported

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the sensation that the gaz shifted, or moved during a session and dis­ sipated at its conclusion. „ „ In conducting bodywork with my clients, I was able to sense the pain that they carried within; however, this awareness was sometimes difficult to sustain. In her work on language, violence, and the contested politics of gender in the partition of India, Veena Das (199?) refers to Wittgenstein’s contention that one’s own pain may reside or be sensed in another’s body.'^ The intersubjective nature of the work-in which I adjusted my movement or the placement of my hands in accordance with how a client responded to the same—meant that my own somatic mode of attention was necessary to the therapeutic process. At times I was successful in assisting a client’s “healing,” despite the persistence of a chronic injury, by gently offering another experience of her capability to move freely. By way of explanation I want to return to Csordas (1994) and his description of the practice of “leg-lengthening” in the “laying on of hands” healing process in the Catholic Charismatic community. Csordas (1994: 65-67) describes the way in which individuals are able to maintain a sense of embodiment through the awareness of their own posture, and the structural relationship of the embodied self to the external world, as the “postural model.” The Charismatic practitioner works with his client’s posture in order to influence the individual’s self­ orientation, which results in the perception of a change in leg length, as well as an empirical shift in posture. The conscious process by which one is aware of these changing relations is an alteration in the “somatic mode of attention” (58-73)- For some individuals the working rela­ tionship between Trager practitioner and client can alter the client s “habitual posture”—the “persistence of a sensory impression” (66) of the body, that may be deeply influenced by the accumulation of somatic stressors over time—as weU as the attention to chronic or habitual pat­ terns of tension through the intersubjective medium of touch. Through the movement of a client’s body, Trager practitioners may be able to sense and perhaps intuit the range of motion that a client is accustomed to permitting, as well as suggest new possibilities for motion that may rest beyond the client’s self-orientation. Within a space of security viktim trusted me to alter the habitual posture and somatic tension that had accumulated in their bodies not only after recent shocks but also after distal traumas. I call this effort to adjust their mode of being in the world, “embodied remoralization” (Frank and Frank 1991; Kleinman 1988, zoo6),,in which the method of the verbal sharing of experience and emotion in the interview process followed by

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the. Trager session permitted us to attempt to restructure or “remake” % (Das et al. 2001) the experience of suffering in the embodied realm. an approach parallels that of other manual therapies and is by no 'means exclusive to the Trager work. I was able to alleviate my client’s somatic complaints, even tem" pdrarily, the space of security created in the course of the work could ,’epable her to experience emotional and physical relief. When successml, it was sometimes difficult to extract myself from clients’ repeated requests for physical therapy. For many survivors of torture, however, this work—like that of many Haitian traditional healing methods—^proI’f vfded only limited physical and emotional relief for their disability. This ■»j)^as especially the case given the ongoing risks that my clients faced in ’j^hdir everyday lives of ensekirite in Haiti.

^women’s stories ' Grand-Pierre pl. ,1

(^Mkrie is the woman I met at. the Women’s Rights under Haitian Law ' yyPrkshop who asked whether the physical therapy I had practiced could ';qql ^amework in the treatment of individual trauma contributed to the ^^pSformation of militan to viktim. ^y^l^xhe group with the psychological orientation, viktim first recounted ■tthiSif* trauma narratives and then were asked to describe their past. The ijppej^tive question was, “Who were you before you became a victim?” ^tl^^i^Qire than one case the question elicited nostalgic laments for childspent in the provinces, where “one could at least live and eat the land,’’ whereas life in the city was harsher, more perilous, and ;fi:agije. Generally viktim described leaving the routines of the extended ||mily and agricultural production for the “depravity,” “risk,” and “law­ lessness” of urban life. Their experiences of threat, assault, and humiliitti‘|origer existed. Having to flee compounded their sense of shame and fpeji^^s of failure to succeed. Regardless, recollections of, idyllic lives in ^reas were most likely inaccurate representations of the past. The prpvihces were generally acknowledged to be the poorest areas in Haiti tfiose least maintained by the centralized state. However, they were »s6 Viewed as less vulnerable to the waves of political and criminal |nsqj

USAID Missions and Operating Units

Organizational Stra­ tegic Plan

—>

Country Strategic Plan Operating Unit Strategic Plan

Results Package (activities funded by USAID)

—»

Results Framework

—»

Agency Strategic Framework

Performance Moni­ toring and Evaluation Plan

—>

Performance Moni­ toring, Evaluation, and Research Plan

—>

Agency Perfor­ mance Plan and Congressional Presentation

Organization’s results that can be incorpo­ rated in the Annual Results Review and Resource Request (R4)

—>

Annual Results Review and Resource Request (R4)

USAID’s Strategic Plan (1997-2007)

Annual Perfor­ mance Report to Congress

Risk, uncertainty, and unpredictability are intrinsic to humanitarian and development efforts, especially in “postconflict” environments. It is crucial, therefore, for USAID to be able to take credit for successes but also to delegate fault or blame when its projects are perceived to have failed, especially because it is ultimately accountable to the U.S. Congress. Intermediary development partners implementing USAID’s strategies around the globe, such as ADF, serve as examples of USAID’s successes and as scapegoats for its failures, often at the same moment. In my research at the ADF Human Rights Fund and later at USAID/ Haiti, I learned how the relationships between USAID/Washington, USAID missions abroad, development partners, and their “local” staff, customer nations, and even members of Congress were undermined by disconnects, resistances, and conflicts. As I discuss in chapter 5, USAID/Haiti’s administrative supervision of the Fund’s Rehabilitation Program ranged from advocacy to sabotage, all of which raises ques­ tions about exactly how USAID conceived the work, of postconflict

development in Haiti.

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. USAID’s Strategic Objectives for Haiti changed from year to year in the postconflict period as a result of the collaborative process between the multiple stakeholders involved in planning the transition. After the 1994 restoration of democracy, the Strategic Objectives for Haiti were aimed at achieving “a successful transition to a democracy based on the rule of law . . . through election assistance, the demobilization of the military and their replacement with trained police” (USAID/Haiti 1996: i). The United States recognized the devastating impact of the embargo and the years of fiscal mismanagement by the de facto regime. Other assistance interventions had the goals of “stabilizing the country through a local governance transition program, balance of payments support, short-term jobs, Haitian Skills Bank, rehabilitation of health infrastructure, intensified feeding program (Title II and III funds) and tree-planting” (USAID/Haiti 1996: i). In 1995 the SOs were amended to promote democratic institutions and community action; economic growth; public health, food security, and education; and environment and agricultural productivity. In early 1997 USAID revised the SOs for Haiti once again when Phyllis Dichter-Forbes joined USAID/Haiti as its new mission director. Forbes (as she was called by members of the aid apparatus) had been the architect of the reengineering of USAID in the mid-1990s, and the new model of results-oriented development assistance was instituted in Haiti. The Strategic Plan was redesigned under one broad goal: “Reduc­ tion of Poverty in a Democratic Society.” This objective was subdivided into several SOs,"* each SO encompassing a number of intermediate results (IR) to be achieved by a selection of “indicators.”^ Indicators were measures or “signs” that displayed how well USAID and its developnjent partners were implementing the overall plan. The specific interventions that the Fund was expected to complete fell mostly under USAID/Haiti’s Strategic Objective i (SOi): “foster more effective and responsive democratic institutions and empowered conununities” (HRFII1997: i). Under SOi, USAID/Haiti’s IRs were to achieve a “more effective, self-sustaining judicial system and improved 5 legal advocacy,” a “well-established electoral process,” a “more effeci tive and responsive legislature,” a “redefined and circumscribed gov­ ernment,” and Haiti’s “increased capacity to address and resolve community issues at the local level” (USAID/Haiti 1997: 3). The Fund /focused on promoting the first and last of these IRs (HRFII 1997: i), s which accorded with its mandate “to support Haitians in their efforts to r redress human rights abuses and provide assistance to victims” and “to

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contribute to the growth of a society based on nonviolent, democratic principles” (HRFII1997: i). At the local level the specific .service or “product” provided to the customer (host nation) was called a “results package.” Results packages were specific activities that would implement the Agency’s intermediate results. They were also “outcomes” that USAID assessed, in this case when the Fund’s work was audited. Each development partner had a USAID results package team leader, a USAID/Haiti staff person who was the liaison between the “local” development partners implement­ ing each intermediate result and the Agency. The results package team leader worked with the developnient partner to design the “Results Framework,” a work plan that was aligned with the overall strategic plan for the customer nation and the goals of the U.S. mission. Through the Results Framework, the local development partner was given a blue­ print for “activities” or “outcomes” that it needed to demonstrate at the conclusion of a project or an institution’s grant. The Human Rights Fund’s Results Packages are presented below. Result Package i: Increased Capacity to Address and Resolve Human Rights Issues at the Local Level Result i.i: Increased (and increasingly responsible) public participation in identifying, resolving, and potentially preventing human rights abuses at [the] local level in selected communities. Result i.z: Improved monitoring and documenting of human rights abuses by community-based groups in selected communities Result 1.3: Improved advocacy by community groups in selected communities. Result 1.4: Police and informed communities come together to identify and resolve human rights issues at [the] local level in selected communities. Result 1.5: Emerging models for increasing community capacity to address and resolve human rights issues at [the] local level through police/ community liaison that might be replicated in other communities. Result Package 2,: Increased advocacy and public confidence in the Rule of Law and Justice Result 2.1: Improved and appropriate assistance provided to direct victims ■ of current abuse. Result 2,.i.i: Improved medical treatment and legal referral provided to victims of current abuse. Result 2..I.Z: Increased public awareness of and GOH attention to assis­ tance to victims of human rights abuse. Result 2.1.3: Emerging models for more effective and efficient assistance to victims of current abuse.

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Result 2.2: Improved psychological and psychiatric care provided to trau« matized victims of organized violence and human rights abuses. Result 2.2.1: Increased capacity to diagnose, treat and refer for treatment traumatized victims of organized violence at the local level. Result 2.2.2: Increased public awareness of and GOH attention to the traumatic impact of organized violence and human rights abuse on victims’ , ' and their families, and its importance as a public health problem. Result 2.2.3: Emerging models for more effective, culturally appropriate and efficient rehabilitation of victims of organized violence. (HRFII ,1997:3-4)

i'«'' jT^his list of objectives depicted organized violence and its traumatic ^ng-term effects as public health problems that affected the individ'S'Lfali, family, and community, as well as Haiti’s capacity for developing democracy, justice, and the rule of law. The results packages were “indit:ators,” or social signs,, to be inculcated with “effectiveness and effi­ ciency” in order to promote “public confidence in the justice system” ' an4 “the advent of a reliable rule of law in Haiti” (HRFII 1997: 2). l^at is ironic and even jarring about the results packages is the explicit i expectation that psychosocial trauma can be treated or rehabilitated .through rationalized, bureaucratic processes in a delimited time period. 'rGiyen the legacies of necropolitical violence, the culture of impunity, atid the ongoing ensekirite, the expectation that psychosocial ruptures Gplild be redressed and ontological security or trust established in a ' natter of months was unrealistic. Ultimately, the results packages were less about facilitating Haiti’s sociopolitical and economic rehabilitation Pt' transformation and more about providing USAID headquarters and :■ Congress with measurable signs of change that indicated improvements ih, security at multiple levels. While the results packages were designed . tOj;create “empowered communities” that possessed a “sense of justice” : by means of support from both government and international donor ,activities, implicit in the objectives is a neomodern subtext that the f Fund would craft rational, nonviolent citizens from victims. f ^As I observed the conflicts between ADF, the Fund, and USAID/Haiti i regarding the best way to implement the results packages when work?i ing'with traumatized communities and individual viktim, the emphasis op efficiency in implementing justice, the rule of law, and psychoso: cial rehabilitation was problematic. The disputes illustrated the tenf'sipns inherent in the chain of institutional accountability from ADF to ■ USAlD and from USAID to the U.S. Congress. These dilemmas were not I merely the result of limits imposed by donors on recipients of grants or J

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aid, whether those recipients were governments, international organiza­ tions, medial institutions, or local individuals. Nor were such challenges solely the “fault” or responsibility of the so-called fragile, transitional

customer state. On a practical level competing bureaucratic time frames structured the Human Rights Fund’s administrative functioning and its provision of services to viktim. The calendars that shaped the Fund s activities were many. Of greatest priority was USAID/Haiti’s strategic plan and objectives. USAID/Haiti needed to account for funded activities during the fiscal year to USAID in Washington, D.C., and to Congress. The calendar of next importance was the finite period of ADF’s coopera­ tive agreement and then the HRFII’s scope of work between October 1^9*7, and June 30, 199^" Additional calendars that indirectly influ­ enced the Fund’s work were the grant cycles of ADF’s other civil society project in Haiti (see chapter 5) and those of ADF’s democracy promo­ tion projects in other countries. Haiti’s “local” context of unceasing ensekirite confronted all these institutional cycles. The bureaucratic framework described above became an additional means to rationalize rehabilitation for traumatized victims at the HRFII Victim Assistance and Rehabilitation Program. In this respect institutional development partners and their institutional and individ­ ual grant recipients in local realms had to demonstrate accountability and transparency, as well as their competence to accomplish set tasks. Requirements of transparency and accountability also shaped the “rela­ tionships” that developed between ADF/HRF and the Haitian state. Furthermore, there was a trickling down of constraint that influenced the interaction between HRF therapeutic staff members and their vik­ tim beneficiaries that concerned which victims HRF was authorized to recognize for intervention. The HRF Rehabilitation Program operated using a limited and limiting definition of victim. The criteria for recognizing victim sta tus reflected U.S. policy, as well as the Fund’s obligation to complete its work in a transparent, accountable manner. The U.S. mission and USAID/Haiti recognized “victims of human rights violations” as persons subjected to violence that was “politically motivated or perpetrated by an agent of the Haitian state. In alignment with the U.S. position on international human rights covenants, the definition did not acknowl­ edge economic, cultural, and social rights. Rather, the emphasis was on redressing abuses of civil and political rights.^ According to HRF’s insti­ tutional mandate, it was necessary to determine whether a prospective

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beneficiary was indeed a “victim of a human rights violation” and not a -victim of interpersonal violence or everyday ensekirite. Given the com­ plexities of categorizing violence in Haiti as either state-sponsored or ihterpersonal, this requirement proved challenging. Under such constraints, the draft documents for the Rehab Program defined candidates eligible for intervention according to the World Health Organization’s (WHO’s) 1986 definition of a human rights violation: The interhuman infliction of significant, avoidable pain and suffering by an organized group according to a declared or implied strategy and/or system of ideas and attitudes. It comprises any violent action which is unacceptable by general human standards, and relates to the yictims’ feelings. Organized violence includes inter alia “torture, cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment or punishment” as mentioned in article 5 of the UN Universal Declaration of Human Rights (1948). Imprisonment without trial, mock executions, hostage taking or any other form of violent deprivation of liberty also fall under the heading of organized violence. (Ministry of Welfare, Health and Cultural Affairs 1987: 9)

Victims were categorized as persons who had, among other criteria, been threatened, arbitrarily detained, forced to flee from persecution, or sustained losses to property or goods in a politically motivated context. HRF consultants themselves acknowledged that distinguishing between types of “victimization”—^whether stemming from political and eco­ nomic factors or arising from interpersonal conflict—^was difficult. The Human Rights Fund had limited capacity to investigate human rights abuse cases that had occurred during the coup years. It was necessary, therefore, for the Rehabilitation Program staff to carefully ascertain the “truth” of a potential beneficiary’s victim status, especially because this would influence how and for whom U.S. tax dollars would ; be spent. It was also crucial to verify a victim’s status as legitimate in view of potential audits of the whole project in the future. In effect, each potential beneficiary needed to “prove” that he or she was a victim of a ?human rights abuse. ■ .When an individual or family first came to the Fund in search of assisf.tance a specific intake procedure was begun. The Rehab nursing staff or HRF case managers interviewed prospective beneficiaries about their ^Experiences and reviewed any supporting documentation of the claim. A team of field investigators and consultants authenticated more recent peases of alleged abuses, such as violations perpetrated by the HNP. Vio^iations that had occurred in years past were more difficult to corrobo.^ rate.- If supplicants did not arrive with documentation of their cases in

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hand, they were asked to provide letters of reference from a recognized human rights organization, a corresponding civil society organization, or a legal bureau that had documented cases of human rights violations in the past. Witnesses could also corroborate a person’s testimony as valid in cases where no such documentation existed. In addition, vari­ ous institutions were able to refer “victims” to the Fund. Members of the Haitian government—such as the minister of justice, or other minis­ try staff, the staff of the Office for the Protection of Citizens, members of Parliament, or representatives of local government throughout the nation—^were entitled to do so. Furthermore, international human rights organizations and medical missions, such as the National Coalition for Haitian Rights, the U.N.-International Civilian Mission, or Medecins du Monde, referred the trauma portfolios of individuals and their families. Finally, Haitian civic organizations, such as the Justice and Peace Com­ mission, the TKL, other church groups, and popular .organizations in urban and rural areas,, also gave viktim referrals. Over time, a group of community health workers who had formerly been beneficiaries of the Rehab Program assisted with the verification process. These individuals had conipleted training to coordinate inves­ tigative and outreach services in other departments in Haiti, much as had viktim working with other victims’ advocacy institutions, such as M’AP VrV, which had been instituted by MICIVIH and MDM, and the Fondasyon 30 Sektanm, which was established by the former president of the National Commission for Truth ajid Justice and a state employee who was also a former member of M’AP VIV (see chapter z). The HRF staff then met as a group to determine which supplicants would be

granted eligibility. The Fimd had two categories of eligibility. “Direct” victims were defined according to the WHO standard, mentioned above. Once those conditions had been met, the Rehab Program accepted that “victims” sometimes included those persons who were indirectly affected by a human rights violation, such as relatives or household members of an individual who had been a direct target of violence. For example, if a woman had lost an immediate family member who had supported her financially or if a child had lost a parent, the prospective beneficiary could become eligible for aid once her or his case had been documented and validated. Acknowledging that Haitian households do not always con­ form to the model of the nuclear family, the program was initially able to provide resources to all dependent members of a beneficiary s household.

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ft ''

193

The Rehab Program staff gave eligible beneficiaries written referrals thdt authorized their access to a network of Haitian and international ; c^egivers. The services provided were primarily medical assistance, 'psychological counseling, and legaL counseling. In some cases, howindividuals were given temporary housing for emergency asylum. JB'epeficiaries were able to receive reconstructive surgery, dentistry, ophJ* . tl&lmology, obstetrics and gynecology, pediatric care, and psychiatric t/eatment, among other services. Institutions and individuals providing ' fjjese benefits billed the costs directly to the Fund. Beneficiaries were ' referred to a network of pharmacists and private laboratories that specialized in various medical diagnostic testing technologies. Psychological counseling occurred in one-on-one sessions between viktim and • ..‘Dn Thomas, the ethnopsychiatrist, as well as with other Haitian mental I^CCalth providers and in the new therapy group counseling sessions as I ’^rSviously described. ‘ J^he regimentation and bureaucratization of the Rehab Program’s I' Aefapeutic practices became standard in the U.S. development assisI tari^e audit culture. These practices can also be viewed as examples of I thetexportation of “managed care” abroad. Managed care is a strategy I .to'regulate the fiscal and therapeutic relationship between patients and I h^lth care providers in order to cut costs. It became prevalent in the Upited States after passage of the 1973 Health Maintenance Organizaport'Act. Independent organizations, some of which are for-profit, largely I implement these practices in the United States. These health maintenance I Ot^^nizations (HMOs) act as gatekeepers—between patients aftd proI ,|i'd^s and between providers and the medical technologies that phyp sicigns and other caregivers would ordinarily select for patients in a I fee^^pr-service plan. In controlling the process by which viktim patients livr^pj^j^ved care and regulating the frequency and duration of treatment I'ap^^tjther forms of assistance, the Rehab Program worked very much K like-^gn HMO. In this respect and others the Rehab Program was an I ‘^xa^le of neomodern governance. i. '■ The demand for a letter of reference or institutional referral before a . Ij HeW'beneficiary gained admittance to the program was reminiscent of I bis^prical forms of medical care in cosmopolitan settings in the United For example, in the early nineteenth century trustees controlled I' adniissions to municipal facilities like the Massachusetts General Hos|wp'i,tab; In order to gain admittance, a prospective patient needed to be fe^erfed to a trustee for approval. At times a letter of recommendation

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or other formal docuirientation was required to verify the patients “worthiness” to receive care/ At issue was whether the provision of treatment would result in an implicit return on the investment namely, that the patient, once healed, would become a productive member of society. The regulation of care at the Human Rights Fund likewise incorporated implicit assumptions about the “worthiness” of beneficia­ ries, in this case judged in terms of the political roots of their victimiza­ tion as verified by powerful political institutional and individual actors. In practice, the Fund’s criteria for eligibility were narrow. At times the need to circumscribe the boundaries of eligibility undermined the institution’s stated humanitarian, charitable foundations, thereby cre­ ating double binds for both staff members and beneficiaries. For the medical staff, the institutional location of the Rehab Program under the ADF umbrella challenged efforts to treat “patients” under conditions of political neutrality, especially considering ADF’s controversial back­ ground in promoting democracy abroad. ADF operated explicitly to implement U.S. political development strategies to promote democracy (and reduce poverty) in Haiti. Like USAID/Haiti, ADF was not ulti­ mately accountable to local Haitians. Even as its Rehab staff members treated patient-clients, HRF also worked to promote democracy and the growth of civil society as defined by the United States. One of the means by which the Rehabilitation Program promoted civil society that may have impeded the “rehabilitation” of viktim was through additional forms of governing the psychosocial treatment pro­ cess. Because formal recognition as legitimate viktim was necessary in order to receive services to mitigate suffering, viktim were encouraged to organize, join, and incorporate victims’ advocacy organizations that the Haitian state legally recognized. This measure was intended to cre­ ate sustainable support systems for viktim prior to receiving services and fulfilled USAID’s request that ADF/HRF conduct work to promote democracy, human rights, and “capacity building” within civil society. Thus, in addition to its provision of humanitarian aid, the Fund gave technical assistance to victims’ advocacy, human rights, and other civil society organizations with which it collaborated to create sustainable local institutions. However, the process of obtaining official recognition for such organizations was time-consuming and lengthy and required a measure of fluency with bureaucratic procedures that the majority of the Fund’s beneficiaries did not possess. Prospective beneficiaries fre­ quently had to rely on the patronage of “brokers” with the political and social capital to facilitate these processes. As discussed below, these

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brokers were able to employ the benevolent practices of bureaucraft to- create opportunities for viktim but also to manipulate bureaucratic procedures for illicit personal and institutional gain, thereby generating the negative dimensions of bureaucrafr.. At best, these technologies of trauma were compassionate means to provide appropriate assistance to Haitian “victims” given the institu­ tional constraints and the requirements of accountability. At worst, they were forms of “discipline”® or regulation that prescribed specific behav­ iors and practices to authenticate, document, and even perform suffer­ ing under conditions of duress. This was another aspect of the grant eednomy. The power relations between the program staff and its supplicatits were highly unequal, which influenced daily encounters between victims and Rehab Program staff, especially if there were suspicions about the truth of a victim’s trauma narrative or if prospective clients’ narratives of trauma did not fit the narrow criteria for eligibility. The ambiguities raised by such categorical uncertainties interfered with the interactions between prospective beneficiaries, caseworkers, and thera­ peutic staff members. F,or example, despite the comprehensive nature of the Rehab Pro­ gram’s services, rape cases that occurred after the restoration of democ­ racy on October 15, 1994, were problematic in terms of the HRF mandate. With the blanket amnesty given to members of the coup appa­ ratus (see chapter 2) and U.S. ambivalence about recognizing rape as a state-sponsored abuse (see chapter i), the political motivation for sexuaPviolence still needed to be proven. The validation of suffering by an external authority as political in origin was especially challenging given that many of the perpetrators were civilian affiliates of the coup appara­ tus. In addition, the MNF had never disarmed the atache and zenglendo who continued to police the communities in which viktim lived. There­ fore, th6 Rehab Program was limited in its capacity to assist survivors of sexual violence who could not prove the political motivation underlying jtheir victimization. Usually the Fund referred these women to other civil Society groups and health organizations for assistance. ' Rape survivors from the 1991-94 coup years whose cases had been ^^ocumented previously by civil society organizations or who were 'Referred by Haitian state officials or known to the ADF/HRF staff coni^inued to be eligible for care. However; these cases were challenging rfor other reasons. The case of one. woman who requested assistance jB’om the Rehab Program suggests some of the reasons for this. Mari*:anne Pascal was a resident of Martissant with whom I had worked at

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Chanm Fanm in summer 1996. In October 1998 came to the Fund seeking aid for herself and her family, as she was one of the viktim whose families were targeted by FRAPH members while the Gover­ nors Island Accord agreement was being negotiated. On July 31,1993, six armed individuals had entered her home in search of her husband. They beat him, and some of the men took him out of the house. Each man then raped Marianne in turn. They trampled her nine-year-old son. The FRAPH members left Marianne and her son behind and took her husbarid away with them. He was never seen again. Her son died three days later from the injuries that he sustained. Marianne told me in our work together that she nearly died from the grief. She explained that she had been “out of her head” for years. Only in early 1996, when she bore another child, did she feel some relief from her chagren (sorrow). She continued to mourn her losses in the years afterward, even as she received medical care and some financial support through the DRC and theHWA. ‘ One of the Martissant community agents who had been trained by the Rehab Program referred Marianne to the Fund. A witness who corroborated her, testimony accompanied her. Marie-CHire Girard, a young woman finishing a degree in psychology at the time, conducted the intake interview. After Marianne recounted her trauma narrative, Marie-Claire asked her how her losses continued to afflict her. Mari­ anne complained of ongoing vaginal infections, chronic headaches, back pain, and weakness. In order to be eligible for care, however, she still needed to pi;ovide a “medical certificate” from a physician to vali­ date her injury and health problems. While that certificate was pending, the Rehab Program staff deliberated her case. In light of the urgency of her need, Marianne became eligible for care a week later. Nevertheless, there was still something troubling about Marianne’s case for the young woman who had conducted the intake interview. In the notes Marie-Claire added to Marianne’s trauma portfolio—the case file completed during the course of the interview, along with supporting documentation —she expressed doubts that eight men raped Marianne rather than six. However, Marianne herself had testified to being vio­ lated by six men, as was recorded accurately a few pages earlier m the same report. I have wondered why Marie-Claire would question the number of men who had committed the rapes but thenanistakenly inflate the estimate to eight. Was the enormity of Marianne’s abject suffering unthinkable, implausible, and therefore deniable or even exaggerated.

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as Marie-Claire imagined and recorded the event? Why was the extremity'of the sexual violation a focus rather than the disappearance of her husband and the death of her young son? l^^rie-Claire’s doubts about Marianne’s trauma narrative may have reflected the general concerns about the truths of horrific suffering that l|unianitarian actors operating in Haiti frequently expressed. Questions 'labout patient or client eligibility frequently arose from the pressures on ; ageXicies and agents to rationalize and justify rehabilitation, especially ysihce decisions made on the basis of the report could be questioned i dialing a subsequent program assessment. But Marianne’s doubts might, f ^iso have been the sign of “compassion fatigue,” “burnout,” or “second-/ h^ry” (Figley and Kleber 1995; Stamm 1995) or “vicarious traumatiza’fiqn” (Pearlman and Saakvitne 1995). The routine hearing of victim’s' ffe.|timonies of trauma might have precipitated countertransferencd^ f' reactions of being overwhelmed,, denial of the egregiousness of abuses^ dr’ indifference (Bustos 1992).’ These reactions recall Scarry’s (198^ idisipussion of the difficulties of signifying or translating into language ^Th"6‘’experience of torture and pain. In addition to the difficulties of determining a beneficiary’s eligibilit^\Rehab Prograrh staff members were pressured by viktim to provide ^ additional assistance and insisted that HRF give perpetual gifts and I grapts of humanitarian and development aid. Such requests entangled the,staff and the institution in a messy set of obligations clouded by the g.^u^stions of torture, traunia, and truth. But entanglements also arose I, ffoih the peculiar relationships among ADF, HRF, the Rehab Program, pts^'b^neficiaries, and the aid assemblage in general as it operated Haiti I irt, l^e postconflict period. k The complications of past and current therapeutic and institutional I r^Htlonships became clear when the Human Rights Fund presented the S Rehabilitation Program to the Haitian public as part of its effort to gain pupport for a sustainable center for victims of organized violence. The |Fund sponsored several roundtable discussions with members of the I'Hd^tian medical community and public health department regarding bh’ow to create a sustainable victim assistance institution. The most notafeble'*eVent was the May 1997 rehabilitation colloquium. A key issue for F^b^te was the status of the relationship between the Haitian state and |pvi| 'society: Given the Government of Haiti’s limited -infrastructural I^Upacity and its predatory past, to what extent could it be a vehicle for l■’'^i?,?l^'ations, reconciliation, and truth for victims of organized violence?

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REHABILITATION FOR VICTIMS OF ORGANIZED VIOLENCE

The moral stakes in reputed state failures and the politics of victim assis­ tance in general became clear during the May 2,9, 199 75 HRF National

Colloquium forjheRehabilitation of Victims ^e“^vem”^a;i^ occasioT wheF opaque Bureaucratic practices fdr assessing truth and promoting justice and rehabilitation became clouded by accusations about the motives, authenticity, and practices of actors in the aid apparatus. The pattern of accusation and counteraccusation and of intimations of hidden or occult action to exploit the suffering of

others was a negative dimension of bureaucraft. The colloquium was intended to explore long-term approaches to the rehabilitation of victims of organized violence in Haiti through the cre­ ation of a network of professionals with expertise in the medical, psy­ chological, and legal dimensions of victim assistance. Notable members of Haitian governmental and civil society organizations participated in the event, as did international humanitarian missions, representatives of victims’ organizations throughout the country, international and Haitian human rights and women’s rights organizations, and others. The colloquium was moderated by the activist and economist Michele Pierre-Louis, founder and executive director of the Fondation Connaissance et Liberte (Open Society Institute Haiti).'® Fran^oise Boucard, president of Haiti’s National Commission for Truth and Justice and cofounder of the Fondasyon 30 Sektanm, agreed to present her experience with the CNVJ. Madame Florence Elie, the widow of Guy Malary—the former minister of justice who was assassinated m broad daylight in 1993, three days after the Harlan County debacle (see chap­ ter z)—represented the Ministry of Justice. Another featured presenter was Met Camille Leblanc," an attorney who coordinated a group of lawyers that had documented more than eight hundred cases of human rights abuses perpetrated against viktim. Although the colloquium was criticized for being conducted primarily in French, excluding the full participation of the majority of Haitians, who spoke only Haitian Creole, crucial segments were in Creole. After presentations on violence, trauma, and justice in cross-cultura postconflict settings, Boucard’s talk on the work of the CNVJ sparked tremendous debate about the functioning of this institution, which con­ tinued throughout the day. The CNVJ was heavily criticized because of the secrecy with which it reportedly conducted its work, for its inacces­ sibility, and for delays in disseminating the final report. Its bureaucratic

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failures and the opacity of its practices reinforced the image of the Gov­ ernment of Haiti as incompetent, corrupt, indifferent, and unwilling to combat impunity." The opacity and secrecy with which the CNVJ operated'and controlled information was a source of ongoing frustration for Haitian human rights activists as well. The CNVJ was inaugurated by presidential decree on March 28,1995, just a few months after President Aristide’s return to office. While its. pur­ pose was to reveal the truths of what had occurred in Haiti during the coU’p period, in many respects it could be viewed as another example of the failure of the Haitian government to be accountable, responsible, and transparent to its citizens. The CNVJ was composed of seven commis­ sioners, three of whom were foreigners who did not maintain a consistqnt presence in Haiti during the time of the investigation (CNVJ 1997: ? 8).3n addition to the commissioners, there were six data analysts, eight ^ temporary “collaborators” with special expertise in data processing, and a team of forty-four investigators who had received special training in recqrding testimonies of human rights abuses (8). Their charge was to “solicit the participation of the majority of citizens to establish the facts of hpman rights abuses committed during the period of reference'JSep^ tember 29, 1991, to October 14, 1994], while guaranteeing the security ' of the plaintiffs, victims, and investigators in the field” (8). The commissioners began to hear cases of human rights violations ^between June and October 1995. Investigators spent considerable time in ^the West and Artibonite Departments in Haiti. The International Centre ^Tof Human Rights and Democratic Development (Centre International ^des Droits de la Personne et du Developpement Democratique), based jiin Montreal, forwarded some testimonies of Haitian refugees in exile in Canada (CNVJ 1997: 8-9)." The CNVJ also accepted documentation from other human rights and nongovernmental organizations, such as ^MICIVIH, the lACHR, the Platform, and the JPC (9). Boucard had asked the American Association for the Advancement of ^cience (AAAS) for technical support to manage the data." The report bf AAAS team members on their assistance to the CNVJ indicated some 'of the troubles that plagued the institution.

; ’

The CNVJ team took 5,453 interviews. In all, they identified 8,667 victims who suffered 18,629 violations. The CNVJ interviewing was quite good by scientific standards. A data processing group of eleven of the interviewers applied standard definitions to the raw interview data and produced detailed regional analyses, incorporating qualitative material from the interviews, as well as historical, economic and demographic analysis.

I

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Double Binds in Audit Cultures

Unfortunately, in the last stages of the process, the commissioners discarded almost all the work the field investigators did and substituted a chrono ogy of the de facto regime. The commissioners never informed the AAAS of their reasons for not using the regional data; although the statistical analy­ ses were present, the tables omitted most of the content and the translations into French were inadequate. (Ball and Spirer zooo: 27; emphasis added)

The discarding of the regional data was alarming, especially given the continuing questions about the truth of human rights abuses in Haiti and whether or not there had been a systematic campaign against pro­ democracy activists between 1991 and 1994. As discussed previously, these debates included U.S. government challenges to the credibility of MICIVIH’s human rights documentation, as well as the difficulties of documenting the plight of victims in Haiti. The fate of the report after the commissioners had concluded their work was equally disturbing. The AAAS team stated that although the CNVJ’s final report was forwarded to President Aristide in February 1996, “because of policy disagreements in the Haitian government, it was not published until September 1996, and then in a printing of only 75 copies. A second edition was published in February 1997” (Ball and Spirer 2000: 27). Many viewed the limited release of the report as an indication of a lack of commitment to combat impunity on part of the Government of Haiti. The process by which the CNVJ report was dis­ seminated was subjected to a devastating critique that appeared in Le Monde Diplomatique. The article alleged that the final CNVJ report was hidden in the files of the minister of justice, M. P-Pierre-Max Antome [sic], for many months. After many protests, only small parts of this report were published. The public and the many victims still wait for its publication in Creole. The majority of the final recommendations were never enacted. Former perpetrators occupied positions in the new national police or as prison guards: one of them was even ih the security guard of the national pal­ ace even though his name appeared in Appendix 4 of the final CNVJ report. (Roussiere and Danroc 1998, cited in Ball and Spirer 2000: 27-28)

In an interview with a former Justice and Peace Commission execu­ tive who later directed the Community-Police Relations Program of the ■ Human Rights Fund, I was told that there was also controversy about the timing of the report. The CNVJ completed its mandate in fall 1995 but only submitted a partial report on February 5,1996, the last day of Aristide’s first term. The timing was such that the Preval administration was not obligated to act on its recommendations, nor could the outgoing

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■ Aristide administration hold the Preval administration accountable for E the perceived failures of the CNVJ. After the CNVJ released the summary (report, access to the full report was limited, even as late as spring 1997. i’ When given the opportunity to participate in the debate at the reha^ bilitntion colloquium on victim assistance and justice for past human . rights abuses, the primary concerns viktim expressed were criticisms vof thn CNVJ. Viktim and their representatives asked both Boucard and i Elie, why the CNVJ had not done more to document cases in all parts ^of; the nation, why the report was still unavailable to the majority of the ^public, and when there would be justice. The responses to these que(ries provoked accusations of blame and intimations of corruption for (die'.perceived failure of the CNVJ, These ethical discourses marked the (emergence of negative dimensions of bureaucraft in the aid apparatus /that increased in frequency and intensity over time. Boucard answered jsli^fply that fifteen months after the submission of the final report, the (Ministry of Justice must be the one to whom questions were asked )about its intent to distribute the report and to pursue the CNVJ’s rec­ ommendations. She lamented, however, “I remember that the National Commission for Truth and Justice, the commissioners, the technicians, ^e personnel in general, everyone worked with the firm conviction of Accomplishing an historic work, a useful work. Today ... I admit that I am ashamed to see that all of this work will have been for nothing.” ifeoiicard went on to insist that it was not the responsibility of the state done to address the question of rehabilitation of victims and repair­ ing past wrongs. Justice, rehabilitation, and reparations—including the ^ssemination of the CNVJ report—must also be the responsibility of dvil society. Her statements worked to deflect sole responsibility for the ujmmission’s failures from herself by implicitly accusing others of not Jakmg greater responsibility for the effort. Elie then spoke, passionately affirming her position as a representa^ve* of the Ministry of Justice, as well as her position as viktim. She ated that the ministry had made available the recommendations chapr of the report as an early step and that it was ready at that moment > distribute 1,500 additional copies of the full text (minus the names ^'alleged perpetrators). The public debate, accusations, and innuendo continued when a ember of the Haitian Women’s Association (one of the sponsors of e Chanm Fanm clinic) criticized Boucard and her desire to place more sponsibility for promoting justice on Haitian civil society.

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Madame Boucard has insisted much upon the responsibility of civil society. I, what I think is that civil society has always taken charge of certain things in Haiti. Since 1986 civil society has tried to lead certain activities with the aim of the construction of the country. Since 1986, we have been saying the same thing, we are trying to distance ourselves from the state, and we ... are trying, somehow or another, what we can. But it is high time that the state takes charge of its responsibilities. We are not able to substitute for the state. The state is there. It must also fulfill its duties toward its citizens. We have spent a long time fulfilling ... the state’s own obligations. We say that we have a “democratic” state, but if we are able to collaborate so that this state is more effective in its achievements, we will do it, but we are not able to substitute for the state.

regarding how the notion of justice could be integrated into the Rehab jProgram’s therapeutic process for viktim, as one part of the more gen''^Jijudicial reform movement in the nation. He stated:

This woman’s perspective highlighted the political and economic fact that civil society could not replace the state—however limited its capac­ ity might be—and that the state must be accountable to its citizenry. Her statement was also a plea for the Haitian state to “parent” its populace responsibly as the nation continued on a democratic path. In contrast, Pierre-Louis compared the CNVJ to the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission, noted for offering amnesty to perpetrators of human rights violations in exchange for full disclosure of the truth of the abuses (Gobodo-Madikizela 2004; Hayner 2001: 98-99; Wilson 2001). She questioned whether the Haitian government had truly intended to shed light on the many crimes of the coup period. She argued that in contrast to the transparency of the South African commission, the CNVJ was “established nearly in secret. No one knew what it was doing and nothing was rendered public.” For her, the issue was whether the long-term effects of the egregious repression of the coup years had made members of civil society grant the state impunity. An unstated issue was the extent to which civil society had been col­ lectively silenced or traumatized and whether the CNVJ had the will or capacity to address the enormous problem of organized violence. In broader terms, it might be asked, to what standard should an embattled, failing state without the capacity to provide for its citizens’ welfare be

"JFdr Leblanc, establishing the facts or truth of the past, and categorizing '^hp was a victim and who was a torturer, was therapeutic. The public recognition of the victims’ suffering was equally important in order to j Validate their experience. But a public, transparent process for eliciting 1

held as it progresses along a democratic path? These issues of trauma, truth, and transparency, as well as of state capacity, accountability, and the role of civil society, were echoed in Met Leblanc’s presentation. He emphasized the need for victims to make public testimony in order to establish personal and collective truths concerning the past and to determine the possibilities for formal jus­ tice. In his view the CNVJ failed to accomplish these goals. Leblanc also responded broadly to a question Dr. Thomas had previously posed

AT

■

Personally, I wished that the Truth Commission were a place that would ’‘Jiave permitted an answer [to this question]. I mean by this that the fact that 'things are spoken is important symbolically for those who have lived that ^'‘situation, because that permits the public, those who have not lived it, to be ft “/‘'able—for at least an instant—to experience [viv] with the victim what had " happened. But the fact that this approach had not been possible and that the ' Truth Commission contented itself solely with hearing the victim [without public testimony], a point of question remains: did this truly happen?

tne-jl^uth was also essential on the national level to document the gov- / 'Orriment’s predatory history, which was still contested by actors in and i diltside Haiti. j J ^Boucard, who by this time was quite emotional, spoke in Haitian CrSple in her response to Leblanc’s condemnation of the CNVJ. Viktim ^hn^’others in the audience noted the shift in language. It was an examjp^e 'of code switching that signaled the authenticity of speech, height­ boned "emotion, and the speaker’s willingness to take the gloves off in i'self-sdefense. It also indicated Boucard’s desire to be understood clearly bp^veryone in attendance. She exclaimed that the CNVJ’s perceived ’ f^ilt[re to incorporate civil society in public hearings was partially the ;jadlts,of President Aristide. She accused the National Palace of having /iifidibrmined or “sabotaged” the CNVJ. She claimed that there was a parallel effort to document and make public incidents of human rights jy^i^l^ions that originated within the National Palace under Camille / tebHnc’s own direction. One possible implication was that such covert i^^orts were intended to cultivate and reaffirm viktim as a loyal political ;'as well as to create a “shadow” judicial process. , Tffie public trade in accusations about hidden or occult activity to ^determine the truths of the coup years and the suggestion of nefarious *Jntept on the part of the executive office were public charges of malevoiifeht'bureaucraft. An underlying point of contention concerned the polijitics of advocacy for viktim. While many international aid organizations tecqgnized victims of human rights abuses on the basis of their sufin national politics viktim were becoming influential civil and

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political actors. Victims’ advocacy associations symbolized, a powerful source of value or political legitimacy for those who represented them, even if their members had little social and political capital outside the realm of aid. As stated above, Leblanc represented hundreds of viktim and managed their trauma portfolios. His experience and visibility as a victim’s advocate cannot be discounted as a factor in his appointment as minister of justice in early 1999. The debates over the CNVJ’s success or failure to document the vio­ lence of the coup period were contentious, not only for viktim, but also for other actors in the realm bf victim assistance. They reflected the challenges of implementing postconflict reconstruction and transitional justice efforts in insecure states. At issue were perceptions of Haiti’s need for judicial reform and state accountability, the need for formal recognition of viktim as targets of state-sponsored human rights abuses, victims’ need for healing, and the role of Haitian civil society in these efforts. The individual political rhetoric and accusations also arose from each person’s desire to demonstrate accountability to and encourage the political allegiance of viktim. Despite its perceived inadequacies, the CNVJ made comprehensive recommendations aimed at transforming Haitian society and providing reparations to acknowledged victims. It urged the establishment of a spe­ cial reparations commission that would fulfill the Haitian state s obliga­ tion to protect and serve its citizens according to international law. The new reparations institution, it was hoped, would be important for the “collective memory of the Haitian people” in order that • those who had given their lives or lost their physical integrity [would] not [be] forgotten either at the symbolic, moral, or material levels” (CNVJ 1997: 85). The CNVJ suggested that the proposed commission pay special attention to the problem of sexual violence. It should work toward reclassifying such offenses in the Haitian penal code from crimes against virtue (atteinte aux bonne moeurs), which “attracts attention to the status or honor of the victim,” to crimes against the victim’s “physical integrity or well­ being” (85). Other major focuses of the proposed special commission included judicial reform, revision of the laws prohibiting Haitians from holding dual citizenship, and the demilitarization of the armed forces.

The National Colloquium for the Rehabilitation of Victims of Orga­ nized Violence permitted members of Haitian civil society and their

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r international partners to deliberate on issues of truth, justice, repara■ tions, and accountability in both government: and civil society. Through i; the presentations by international and national spokespersons, the event ! created the opportunity for diverse segments of Haitian citizenry to dis'< cuss. Haiti’s fate, albeit within the structural frame the Human Rights t- Fund had provided for the occasion. It was also significant for the participation of prominent Haitian human, civil, and women’s rights activt ists who formerly would not have participated or collaborated with a !(U.S. government-funded project. In this respect, it is possible to analyze the colloquium as an indicator that fulfilled HRF’s intermediate results as part of USAID’s overall .i strategic objectives. The conference was a vehicle by which psychosocial '’trauma was approached in a rationalized, bureaucratic manner. Indeed, that such debate occurred in a moderated format, in front of an audience |0f participants, demonstrated to USAID that the HRFII project was a ( success. HRFII was able to bring together opposing factions of Haitian civil:society to participate in its activities, whereas such participation iwould have previously been difficult if not impossible. Furthermore, for ^the ADF Human Rights Fund, the event was an important indicator of institutional achievement that contributed to ADF receiving, additional funding and an extension from July i, 1997, to June 30, 1998. Thus . the successful demonstration of institutional capacity and competency through the achievement of measurable, quantifiable results translated (into gains in the grant economy.

Ruptures and responses: the sinking ?OF ‘la fierte gonavienne’ 1997 another critical event highlighted how HRF’s medial position ^tween governments, institutions, associations, and individuals permititto act as a surrogate for the U.S. government and, indirectly, for ^he Haitian state. The Fund was asked to intervene during a crisis: the Upsizing of the Fierte Gonavienne ferry. This event was critical for two ^ason< First, the international and national responses demonstrated ^e failure of results-oriented management techniques to confront rou­ tes of rupture—unforeseen occurrences that emphasized the ongoing ^sekirite in. Haiti. The inability to control the responses to the disas^r using rational, bureaucratic practices generated ambivalence about ^sponding to and taking responsibility for the victims of this crisis, ^he sense of bureaucratic insecurity contributed to the withholding of

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Double Binds in Audit Cultures

both gifts and grants of humanitarian and development aid that Avere desperately needed. Furthermore, the incident signaled how ensekirite exacerbated local conflicts about the distribution of humanitarian and development aid, which in turn contributed to “witchcraft” discourses and practices, as well as hureaucraft. Ensekirite was felt not only by victims of circumstance and victims of human rights abuses but also by

those who assisted them. Second, the processes that unfolded during the event mirrored in microcosm the transactions in the political economy of trauma that sub­ sequently contributed to the demise of the Human Rights Fund Reha­ bilitation Program between 1998 and 1999 (see chapters 5 and 6). I tell this story using a “processual” (Moore 1987; Farmer^i992.£analy^ to enable an understanding of how the^ sequenceof.events, hi^lighted and tragedy, which was linked to local unrest and long-standing grievances at the community level. It was also related to historical incidents of state failure to protect Haitian citizens from ensekirite—whether economic,

political, or infrastructural. tVM In evaluating th^. evofotion of this dUa§tei;_Stanley Tambiah’s (1996: 81) concepts of focalization 'and transvaluatioj^ are useful. Tambiah analyzed how collettive-’^thnic and''natio-nalist violence erupted in riots in South Asia in a variety of historical contexts in the twentieth century. These incidences of collective violence were “purposive and instrumental in their logic rather than simply or solely an expression of crowd mentality run amok in the context of anomie, wi^sgread„hardship, or incidental provocation” (80-81). He states that focalization progressively denud^Jocalindd^ and disputes of &etf-contextaal particulars, and 'tp^valuatio'ir distorts, abstracts, and aggregates those incidents into largeh’cotlective issuesofnational or ethnic interest” (81). These concepts are also useful for analyzing the responses to disaster. As a crisis unfolds, conflicts that erupt in a local moral world (Kleinman and Kleinman 1991) are detached from the immediate context in which they occur. Then the meaning of the crisis is linked to broader social, political, and economic interests that are only indirectly related to the original issue or event. Through a processual analysis of this notorious ferry disaster, I track the outwardly spiraling way in which the centra event became a trope or vehicle for Haitians to articulate frustrations and injustices about the state. Discourse about the event was also a means to lament the ontological reality of ensekirite. This catastrophe demonstrates how the political economy of trauma flourishes m Haiti

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f ]but also how bureaucraft can generate rumor, gossip, and accusations \ 6f secrecy and occult or illicit accumulation of resources that may cul*" minate in violence. /Catastrophe

September 8, 1997, at about 5:00 A.M., La Fierte Gondvienne (jtne Pride of Gonave), a sixty-one-foot fiberglass triple-decked ferry,, ( da^sized while transporting passengers from the island of La Gonave k tS Montrouis, a town on the coast northwest of Port-au-Prince. Early : reports indicated that as many as four hundred people had drowned, but. these reports could not yet be verified. USAID Mission Director ' Phyllis Forbes asked the Human Rights Fund to conduct an inquiry J? ^htjo* the accident. The goal was to determine the best way to allocate 'initial offer of $'25,000 in humanitarian assistance to the survivors Uhd‘their families. I 5 Given its collective staff experience with victim assistance and its ir ,Ideal “expertise” in La Gonave;, the HRF program seemed a natural phdice to determine the extent of the tragedy and to provide the United k ''Stltds with an estimate of what kind of long-term humanitarian invest.piejpt would be needed. At the time the Fund had a caseworker on staff, I* Claude Oscar, who was a native of La Gonave. He had been hired I before the establishment of the Rehab Program at ADF in 1997 and had r' ’ ^pen’authenticating alleged cases of human rights abuses perpetrated by I flt^new HNP on the island. Two other HRF team rtiembers, Alphonse I ,j!Montina and Henri Raphael, also investigated the capsizing of La Fiert^ ^^ndvienne. Montina and Raphael were Haitian activists who had forpri^fly received development assistance from ADF’s other civil society I project for their popular organization. David Hunter, the controversial b/qfper ADF employee who had worked to establish the Rehabilitation Tfogram as a component of the Human Rights Fund (see chapter 2), hh’d’provided them with asylum when they were threatened during the I^Kup years. Montina and Raphael eventually became permanent paid |,'^jtaff of HRF and served as advisers to USAID on its political strategies |V.ihthe recommendations of MICIVIH as far as the improvement of the functioning of the judicial system, and pursuing the cases of the crimes arid abuses perpetrated during the coup period” (24). The U.N./OAS approval that Granderson gave Minister Antoine was striking, espe­ cially given the anti-U.S. sentiment implied in Antoine’s statement. It signaled that the international human rights monitors allied themselves with governmental and nongovernmental Haitian actors to position th^selves as potent political forces in a highly charged postconflict environment. Despite the rhetoric of state accountability and desire to promote justice and the rule of law, however, Minister Antoine would later be accused by Haitian human rights groups of thwarting one of the first trials of alleged perpetrators .of political violence during the de facto period: the Raboteau trial.^’

The capsizing of La Fierte Gondvienne demonstrated the processes of ' focalization and transvaluation when the meaning of the disaster was abstracted from the local politics of La Gonave and linked to past and current perceptions of the state as predatory rather than accountable. It was also a di^riostic event revealing social cleavages and inequalities of power at not only local~J)ut also natioriaf and international levels. , The incident further highlighted the p^fidcs of the truth of suffering and the processes bxwMQhjrjtumatk.Jufferin^co^T)Tco^^ -SBi.lx£lmtedJbximgh,-a.jKariety.„Qf^rqfej^ ■ Multiple actors sought to ensure their security and ' to demonstrate accountability and competence by intervening in the ^disaster’s wake. The pattern of rumor, accusation, counteraccusation,

2,22

Double Binds in Audit Cultures ji^tlAPTER 5

and violence in the context of scarce aid and overall ensekirite would be repeated as the Haitian state and its national and international partners attempted to promote rehabilitation, reparations, justice, and the rule of law for viktim. Perceptions that some individuals and institutions were profiting from the suffering of others would generate more accusations of both witchcraft and bureaucraft aniong those who interacted with

agencies and agents in the grant economy. The events described in this chapter, one manufactured and the other accidental, also revealed the intense politicization of suffering in Haiti. Both generated debates about truth' and the competence, incapacity, or failure of the Government of Haiti to protect and sustain the major­ ity of its citizens. As it unfolded, each eventjJso displ^ed features of bureaucraft and illustrated the work of oc;cu]h econoy. In the first case, the National ■ Colloquium for the Rehabilitation of Victims of Organized Violence, the existence of such practices was implied. In the case of the ferry disaster, the t^£e?_o£occul^ransa^^^ were more easily discernible in the contests over the distributton of M aid. Both occasions were means by which the Human Rights Fund and, indirectly, ADF demonstrated'their competence and accountability. The successful management of trauma interventions and the suggestion of nonintervention in the case of the ferry disaster gained HRF material and political capital—features of the political economy of trauma.

.Bureaucraft, Accusations, 'f-lthd the Social Life of Aid ’ pa labank, nou pa leta, nou pa Bondye ’ fWe’re not the bank, we’re not the state, and we’re not God.’

’ f.|qyfall 1998 I interviewed Phillippe Jonassaint, a beneficiary of the > ^Human Rights Fund Victim Assistance and Rehabilitation Program and '^-participant in one of its therapy groups. While lamenting the chaldeh^es of finding employment and rebuilding his life after victimization, i^ljillippe observed, “We can speak, but we can’t eat.” His frustration I '^ahbut hunger in Haiti arose from the reality of ensekirite. Although fhere might be “democracy,” along with, in theory, the ability to speak ftecly that democracy ensures, there was little “security.” His words evoked a political slogan often repeated within the Haitian pro' democracy sector: “tape nan tet, lape nan vant” (Peace of mind, peace/ i, bjTp^d in the belly)d The slogan suggests that without a full stomach, j 'j|e/e can be no peace. It also suggests that without ontological security, there would be no end to conflict. f At the same time, Phillippe’s words were a pointed critique of the (.'F^t^onflict humanitarian and development aid apparatus in general f^^^hdbiof the ADF Human Rights Fund in particular. Of what use were pcivil ^nd human rights if the poor Haitian majority could not feed them-. j:;setves and their families? Of what use was psychotherapy for viktim if 4 i; daily survival was in doubtj? By extension, of what use was democracy |if^hpre was no security.? Phillippe’s comments highlighted the double pbiri^ facing both the Rehabilitation Program staff and its viktim clients b whp grappled with multiple forms of social, political, economic, and K institutional insecurity as the postconflict period wore on. 223

2,4

Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

• In this chapter and the next, I trace the social life of humanitarian assistance from 1998 to 1999, from the Fund’s Rehab Program to Martissant and back to the Fund. I illustrate controversies over the defini­ tions of democracy, rights, and security. Issues of politics,' class, and status saturated rehabilitation work with victims of organized violence at both the individual and institutional levels. In each setting the use of humanitarian and development gifts (Mauss 1950) or grants of aid was debated. Most important, I argue that the competition for resources arid the desire for status and recognition within the humanitarian and development aid apparatus trickled down to foment conflicts over aid in local communities. Like the discourses about witchcraft discussed previously, these contests reflected negative aspects of bureaucraft— both as hidden or secret practices and as accusations of bureaucratic secrecy, or occult activity, regarding the distribution of resources, con­ tracts, and alliances in the compassion economy. Such discourses and practices also concerned the truths of individual and institutional iden­ tities. Amid the climate of ensekirite, strife was omnipresent among the donor assemblages, as well as between and among institutional and

individual grant recipients. The scarcity of resources influenced the social life of humanitarian and development assistance. Outside the institutional efforts to reha­ bilitate and craft disciplined citizens from viktim, gifts or grants of aid were inserted into existing local moral worlds (Kleinman and Kleinman 1991). These insertions of aid sometimes reinforced occuk economies or generated new ones. Bureaucraft practices and accusations in insti­ tutional settings also paralleled “witchcraft” accusations in Martissant. The combination of both “crafts” culminated in the termination of the Rehab Program in May 1999 as the institution and its personnel came under attack from within and without the aid apparatus.' The anxiety, frustration, and anger produced by the escalating ensekirite and the decline in ankadreman provided the ontological quicksand for these disastrous events. On November 30,1997, the U.N. peacekeeping forces withdrew, leaving behind a smaller civilian mis­ sion (MIPONUH) that continued to work toward professionalizing the Haitian National Police.^ The HNP assumed greater responsibility for ■ providing security but without much success. Gang violence increased, as did political violence, and sometimes the two were in distinguishable. At the height of a wave of ensekirite between late fall 1998 and spring 1999 President Preval—who had grown weary of the failure of Parlia.-

ment to ratify four successive prime minister appointees m seventeen

J

ZX5

months (because of electoral disputes between political parties)^—dis­ solved Parliament and began rule by decree. Humanitarian aid also grew scarce, as promised aid remained suspended because of the crisis in government. Aid to coup victims also diminished, as international donors no longer viewed the period as one of “crisis” or emergency, and-therefore warranting international military and humanitarian inter­ vention, but rather as one of long-term democratic consolidation. Vic­ tims’ advocacy organizations responding to the fluctuating number/ of institutions aiding them scrambled desperately for assistance. Given the ■ limited aid provided by the Haitian state, viktim sought to strengthen ' connections to institutions such as the Fund. 'Many viktim maintained concurrent memberships in several victims’ 'advocacy groups as a strategy to improve their chances of receiving support. As these groups developed, they splintered off, regrouped, and ^feformed their mandates. Furthermore, victims’ advocacy groups shapeshifted in response to fluctuations in the humanitarian market and changes in the supply of local, national, and international resources to rehabilitate viktim: as new client categories were recognized or defined as objects of intervention or development (i.e., “trafficked women” or “women and microfinance”), these groups transformed themselves accordingly to meet the new criteria for aid. At the same time, politically and criminally motivated ensekirite escalated. The insecure climate cap­ tured viktim and those who assisted them in its web. These constraints pitted grantors against grantors, viktim against viktim, and grantors and” viktim against each other.

.“CHLz YO

pa POU NOU!”

I The tension was thick at the stately gingerbread manor that had once

J! housed America’s Development Foundation/Haiti when I returned to . tonduct ethnographic fieldwork on the Human Rights Fund Rehabili­ tation Program in summer 1998. One reason for the friction stemmed from the institutional uncertainties and temporal fluxes of working in the 'grant economy. Historically ADF operated with a small staff in its Virginia headquarters in the United States. When faced with budget f constraints, whether at headquarters or in its regional programs, ADF . tended to cut overseas expenditures in order to preserve the overall r functioning of the nonprofit company. The ADF office in Port-au-Prince was badly crowded because of these budgetary constraints. In 1997, just after the Rehabilitation Program got under way, ADF decided to put the

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Fund (formerly housed elsewhere) into the same limited space occupied by a civil society project called ASOSYE? ADF’s ASOSYE program was funded by USAID and implemented as part of the Democracy Enhancement Project. “ASOSYE,” which means “associate” or “partner” in Haitian Creole, was the name chosen to promote the effort as a “local” project. Georges Duval, a Haitian Ameri­ can anthropologist, joined ADF as its chief of party in August 1997 and initially managed both the ASOSYE and HRF programs. Duval had worked in development for many years and was a close friend of USAID Mission Director Phyllis Forbes from his previous work with her over­ seas. After a year of directing ADF/Haiti, however, Duval for the most part began to conduct his work at home in Petionville,.a suburb of the capital. As a result it was difficult for both ASOSYE and HRF program administrators to manage personnel and institutional finances without

his on-site oversight of daily affairs. Other challenges the Fund pfogram faced reflected Haiti’s cultural and structural inequalities. There were disputes between the HRF and ASOSYE staff that were related to class and political orientation. The majority of the Fund’s personnel could be described as pro-democracy supporters of former President Aristide who were concerned about Haiti’s transition to democracy. They came from lower- to middle-class backgrounds and had a range of levels of education. The perception among the HRF staff was that the generally wealthier ASOSYE team was politically conservative and in sOme cases even reactionary. One HRF staff rnember alleged that the brother of one of the female ASO­ SYE employees was among the worst torturers during the 1991-94 coup period. While this did not necessarily reflect on the personal politics of his sister, the Fund staff was wary of her, even though she had assisted viktim under the PIRfeD program. Over time the rumors and speculation about each staff member’s identity, socioeconomic status, and political position generated negative aspects of bureaucraft that closely resembled witchcraft accusations. Integral to the proliferation of these accusauons was an underlying environment of social, political, and institutiona ensekirite that generated fear, suspicion, and even paranoia. There were additional sources of friction exacerbating the social, economic, and political divergences between the two ADF project staffs, because the Fund expanded between 1997 and 1999 in terms of budget, programming, number and rank of personnel, and program resources (i.e., vehicles, communications equipment, security personnel, etc.). After two previous directors left the Human Rights Fund,^ Dr. Manata

i' ^uxe^ucraft. Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid pV ’ ■

227

f became the interim director and was confirmed as director in Novemj lier%i997. From that point forward he interacted primarily with the

headquarters of ADF, the U.S. Embassy^ and USAID/Haiti. During (■ th?! same period. Dr. Thomas became director of the Rehab Program, ;.;.^drma997 Fund had enjoyed tremendous success building bridges to ■J Haitian activists, nongovernmental advocacy groups, and state officials Eyvfio were implementing postconflict, transition initiatives through the rotational Colloquium for the Rehabilitation of Victims of Organized

2x8

Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

Violence and. the assessment of the Fierte Gondvienne disaster. HRF had also demonstrated accountability in “rationalizing rehabilitation and promoting USAID’s Strategic Objectives. HRF was rewarded for these public relations and management gains,® and by August 1998 the program grew from its initial status as a subgrant under the auspices of the ASOSYE civil society program to. become a separate project m the Justice and Democratic Governance sector of the USAID/Haiti portfo­ lio.’ When the Fund was upgraded as a separate project with the new extension, all the Fund support staff received raises that increased their salaries beyond those of their generally higher-class counterparts in the ASOSYE group. Given the restrictions on the ASOSYE budget, there was no way to raise the salaries for its staff. As can be expected, jealousy

and resentment began to fester. The bureaucratic procedures by which HRF was upgraded to an inde­ pendent project in the JDG sector merit further discussion as examples of bureaucraft. After evaluations that are routine in the audit culture of publicly funded humanitarian and development assistance, the Fund was judged to be performing at a “world class” level.While I do not challenge the quality of the work that the Fund provided, other scholars have criticized USAID’s evaluations of its democracy assistance projects (e.g., Carothers 1996). Independent audits and assessments are often limited in scope and duration. Auditors may possess appropriate skills and expertise to assess a project’s scope of work but not necessarily its appropriateness for the cultural context in which the work is performed. They also share the institutional language, rationality, and cultural prac­ tices of development. Auditors of USAID programs may have close ties to the network of institutional actors in development whose work they are to assess, making critical assessments challenging for political, pro­ fessional, and personal reasons. Thus negative critiques of such programs and actors are difficult. According to Thomas Carothers: The persons who conduct evaluations , for USAID, though independent of USAID itself, are often part of a relatively close community of development professionals who work as contractors for USAID on a regular basis. As such, they are likely to share many of the basic assumptions of USAID staff about the methods and goals of foreign assistance and to produce evalua­ tions that reflect rather than question these assumptions. (1996: 5)

Furthermore, actors in the federally funded aid apparatus frequently solicited the expertise of individuals who had assessed the work of other USAID programs as consultants. These individuals also assisted with

I Bureaucraft, Accusation^, and the Social Life of Aid

229

strategic planning and design of activities that achieved “results” during the,course of a project grant. They also contributed to processes of com­ peting for future grants. Although these contractors possessed expert knowledge in their respective fields, they were frequently dependent on opportunities to assess the work of a variety of institutions—whether at the-donor or development partner level—to gain access to employment and other professional opportunities in the future. While observing these tensions at close range, I became aware of how bureaucratic procedures to mobilize, circulate, and assess the expert knowledge of other agencies and agents could generate politi­ cal and economic gain for the actors involved. To offer one example, one of the members of the Eval team (as it was called) that gave HRF a world-class' ranking was a former executive with Amnesty USA and a close friend of the chief of party of the prime development part­ ner of the USAID Administration of Justice Program, a group called Checchi and Company. “ This individual was also a longtime friend of USAID Mission Director Forbes, having served with her in the Peace Corps decades before. In fall 1998, as staff planned to commemo­ rate the fiftieth anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the Human Rights Fund hired this former Amnesty executive as a consultant. r The work of these mobile experts, often contested, implied to some j/actors in the aid apparatus the existence of hidden transactions to con■ solidate and increase bureaucratic power for those with strong political connections. For example, some members of the Eval team possessed extensive training and experience in law and human rights and had ji previously worked in Haiti with MICIVIH or Haitian civil society orgai niz'ations. In spring 1999 the expertise and practices of these individuals j became controversial when USAID released the new Administration of ; Justice request for proposals for a new “rule of law” project that was f currently being implemented by Checchi and Company. On reviewing Hhe. proposal, the Checchi arid Company chief of party made accusa­ tions that the former MICIVIH Eval team member who had assessed f Checchi’s work in January 1998 had influenced how the design team drafted the new proposal. He charged the assessor with “spying” and I unfair influence in the design. In addition, he complained that the same ( individual was listed as a potential staff person in a competing compaI ny’s proposal for the new project. In his view there were several conflicts I of "interest, and ultimately Checchi and Company lost its bid for the ) new proposal. Its chief of party’s allegations about the former MICIVIH

2.30

Bureaucraft, Accusations, 4nd the Social Life of Aid

Eval team member’s covert motives and practices are an example of

bureaucraft accusations in the scarce grant economy. Just as witchcraft accusations arising between closely related actors over the causes of fortune and misfortune can lead to retributive attacks, bureaucraft accusations regarding perceptions of illicit accumulation of resources by closely affiliated actors in the aid apparatus led to what can be interpreted as retributive attacks. As discussed below, accusa­ tions against ADF and the Fund as institutions, as well as against indi­ vidual staff members, were generated from within and without the aid apparatus and culminated in multiple forms of violence. What became clear over time was that some within and outside ADF perceived that the Human Rights Fund program had made unfair gains. For example, after the January 1998 Eval team’s positive review of the Fund’s work, the Fund received a fourteen-month extension, to August 1999- Its bud­ get was increased to U.S.$z.z million. Each improvement in HRF’s sta­ tus exacerbated interpersonal relations at ADF/Haiti but also sparked greater criticism of and resistance to ADF/HRF within the broader U.S.funded political development realm. Then in spring 19995 the entire ASOSYE project-mutinied, after using what were rumored to be covert business strategies to bid successfully for the latest civil society request for proposals. Ultimately, USAID removed ASQSYE from ADF and housed it within a competitor’s development portfolio, the for-profit Washington, D.C.-based Management Systems International (MSI). The processes by which ASOSYE was removed from ADF were complex and involved negative aspects of bureaucraft. The perceived failure of HRF staff members to fulfill tacit expectations to distribute gifts and grants of aid at both individual and institutional levels was an important component of these dynamics. Breaches of unstated obliga tions to reciprocate a gift or grant—^whether in kind or through indirect means—were a source of conflict. For example, by fall 1998 the Fund was a newly independent project fulfilling the goals of USAID’s JDG category. The USAID mission director’s spouse requested employment at the Fund. Manata, who had recently been promoted to HRF chief of party, turned down his request. Manata was concerned -that there was a potential conflict of interest. This was an important issue as ADF also intended to bid for the USAID “rule of law” proposal that would be released in spring 1999. If the USAID director’s spouse was an employee of the institution that won the grant, there could be accusations o favoritism or nepotism. Instead, ASOSYE chief of party Georges Duval

Ilufeaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

X3I

. cliose to hire, the mission director’s husband as a consultant, and among b^er tasks, he conducted an unsuccessful mediation seminar between tie staff of ASOSYE and HRF. ',j,l'/jThe implicit or unspoken obligations between agencies and agents ^iitjadhe aid apparatus in Haiti could influence the gains and losses of bbbth institutions and individuals. In December 1998, after the failure to s.r^sqlve the friction between the two programs, Duval informed Manata thaL ASOSYE staff members were not going to honor an exclusivity I agreement with ADF to apply for the new USAID civil society project p'roposal. Rather, they intended to be listed as potential staff both for ; ‘MSI and ADF. It is unclear if the strategy of aligning a program and i^S' staff with multiple development partner proposals to increase the cl^ances of securing future employment and institutional resources is routine development practice. By late spring 1999 ADF, learned that ' KipL had won the bid, though its proposal was scored nearly identif ,b|ill^ to the one submitted by ADF. Apparently, from what ADF presi1 dent Michael Miller said to the staff, USAID had given MSI two extra pppints for the identical ASOSYE staff members listed on ADF’s proj; Miller lodged a formal protest to stop the process from moving forward. His administrative complaint against the USAID/Haiti team hthSLhad reviewed the proposals was met with hostility, and it may also ‘|iave^contributed to the decision to cut HRF’s funding in 1999. ; v'^he discourses employed to explain the loss of ASOSYE evoked } dijnensions of bureaucraft that resembled practices of divination, as as the diagnosis of the etiology of misfortune in witchcraft. As [ ij)rfeViously discussed, bureaucratic discourses and practices are secular fftfebdicies that can be employed to explain one’s own misfortune and ^ ,^he) suffering of others. During this period of conflict and uncertainty,* f iLil|iors circulated among the remaining ADF staff, as well as the staff 5 b^“qjher USAID-funded projects, alleging that the USAID mission direc^’■.|drjqnd her spouse were founding members or partners in the for-profit I The covert negotiations by the ASOSYE staff and the “voodoo fc^Copromics” that gave the MSI proposals two extra points to thwart | /VD|^ and the Fund were markers of what some perceived as negative Bpf^eaucraft practices, as were the allegations that the USAID mission director and her spouse were founding partners of MSI. ADF staff mem^bef^.were desperate to divine what had gone wrong. How had they I: lostjASOSYE? The truth did not emerge until after the Rehabilitation r^rqgram was shut down.

Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

‘deblozay,’ threats, and ethics The institutional practices described above paralleled hidden strategies and tactics used by viktim to increase flows of aid by maintaining mem­ berships in multiple victims’ advocacy groups and by forms of “graft.” As in the ASOSYE case, hidden tactics to ensure institutional (and per­ sonal) gain could be interpreted as justifiable forms of resistance to ADF policies and procedures. Bureaucratic conflicts about how aid should be distributed at the institutional level also paralleled conflicts and attacks at the organizational and interpersonal levels. These individual, orga­ nizational, institutional, and even governmental uncertainties occurred amid escalating ensekirite and were additional factors that influenced the frequency and severity of attacks against the Fund. From fall 1998 to spring 1999 the daily presence of viktim at ADF headquarters proved another source of discord between ASOSYE and HRF staff members. When the PIRfeD staff had begun assisting internally displaced Haitian activists at ADF/Haiti during the coup years, many vik­ tim, sometimes hundreds, had sought refuge in the rear of the lakou—the gated courtyard surrounding the manor. During the subsequent tenure of the original Human Rights Fund (HRFI), the formal victim assistance program moved to a small suite of offices in Pacot, a beautiful residen­ tial area in the foothills of the mountains overlooking Port-au-Pnnce, home to a number of national and international NGOs. This site was less accessible by public transportation for the viktim who needed its services but provided privacy and security for clients. The subsequent relocation of the Fund back to ADF/Haiti headquarters in 1997 made the Fund more accessible and reduced infrastructural costs. However, the ADF

manoi; while grand, could not easily accommodate a treatment program for traumatized survivors of violence who required privacy, security, an recognition from all ADF staff as legitimate participants in democratic political processes. In particular, ASOSYE staff members expressed nega­ tive perceptions and attitudes toward the predominantly impoverished and nonliterate Rehab Program beneficiaries, that mirrored the class an political judgments between HRF and ASOSYE staff. From the PIRfeD period during the coup years to the early years of HRF and between 1997 and 1999 under the new Rehab Program, there were multiple changes in victim assistance policies that strongly influ­ enced the frustrations viktim clients felt and expressed to ADF staff as a whole. In 1997 Rehab staff members had set a limit of one year o eligibility for complete medical care and other forms of support for

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233

each beneficiary and his or her dependents. At the conclusion of the year, beneficiaries of the. program were, expected to have found other resources, especially since the project was intended to develop into an independent Haitian-administered institution. In particular, there were two incidents inVolving viktim that disturbed the working environment arid threatened the staff that resulted from perceived injustices regard­ ing how the Rehab Program administered and distributed victim assis­ tance funds. The first incident occurred early in June 1998, just over a year after the ,latest change in victim assistance policies. Julie Dorville, a fortyorie-year-old beneficiary of the Fund, had an argument with Dr. Thomas about the impending termination of victim assistance to her family and herself. Originally from Jacmel and a seamstress by trade, she had been living in Cite Soleil at the time she became a target of violence. On May 25,, 1991, Julie was at home when some atache stormed the house look­ ing for her husband, a known activist. When they did not find him at the home, all six of these men raped her. Her husband was arrested at the radio station where he worked and disappeared. Around the same time her-sister was assassinated in Jacmel, leaving Julie responsible for six children, her own and her sister’s. In order to find aid and justice for her suffering she joined Fanm Viktim Leve Kanpe (Women Victims Mobi­ lize, FAVILEK), one of the first female victims’ advocacy organizations, and she received emergency assistance from PIR^D when the program was providing direct financial stipends to viktim during the coup years. Under the new Rehab Program all former clients were reauthenticated as legitimate beneficiaries (see chapter 4). Julie thus became eli­ gible for additional services in June 1997, receiving one year of victim assistance for herself and the children under her charge; however, no 'further financial stipend was granted. In June 1998 her year of benefits was ending, which undoubtedly contributed to her frustrations with the program. On the day the altercation occurred. Dr. Thomas had chastised Julie for adding powdered milk for her children to a prescription autho­ rized for payment (for which the pharmacy had in turn billed the Fund ^(or reimbursement). Dr. Thomas viewed her actions as an attempt to pwofite through her affiliation with the Fund, a charge that would also ®e leveled at the Haitian medical network in the months that followed. There were other reasons for the altercation. In addition to Julie’s protest about the suspension of services and the confrontation concernfeg her “delinquency,” Julie disliked the way that Maxine Ambroise, |riother physician working with the Rehab Program, had spoken to

234

Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

her earlier that day. Between 1998 and 1999 Dr. Ambroise became the object of many beneficiaries’ frustrations because of her role as a gatekeeper to medications and medical services outside the Fund. Dr. Ambroise had. been an employee of the local Medecins du Monde office. She had worked with Dr. Thomas and Dr. Manata through the link between MDM and the MICIVIH Medical Unit. A year after the Medi­ cal Unit was terminated and victims’ trauma portfolios were transferred to MDM, Dr. Ambroise lost her job because MDM was compelled to streamline its operation in Haiti as donors became less receptive to pro­ viding long-term assistance to viktim. HRF then hired. Dr. Ambroise to provide basic medical care to viktim, make referrals to the network of Haitian care providers, and eventually prescribe medicine under the Rehab Program when it became a grant recipient of generic essential drugs supplied by the World Health Organization’s PROMESS (Pro­ gram for Essential Medications in Haiti). After viktim received evalu­ ations from physicians working in the referral network. Dr. Ambroise determined whether any cheaper substitutions could be found for the brand-name medications favored by the physicians in the private health care sector. To explain the change in policy, the Rehab staff met with viktim, emphasizing that the generic replacement medications were essentially the same as the brand-name ones. Despite these efforts to be transparent about the change in administrative practices. Dr. Ambroise’s administration and distribution of these medications became increas­ ingly controversial. jit. On the day of the incident in June 1998, Julie lamented that s e could not take cafe of her family without the Fund’s assistance. She wept before the two nurses on staff. Despite their efforts to calm her down, she became more and more aggressive. To diffuse .the situation staff members went to get Dr. Manata. In the meantime Julie tried to hit Nurse Gilles and then threatened to kill Dr. Thomas. Her violent tirade, called a deblozay in Haitian Creole, disturbed other beneficiaries who were waiting patiently in the lobby of the building to be seen by the Rehab staff, as well as the ASOSYE staff members working nearby. Some of the waiting clients were sister members of FAVILEK, who ended up taking Julie away from the building. Concerned with maintaining good relations with the Fund, the FAVILEK women returned later that day to apologize. Dr. Manata decided to suspend Julie’s services and told her that she needed to write him a personal letter of apology. He said the medical team would consider readmitting her to the program after things had calmed down. Because of the upsetting nature of the

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si eriedunter, however, the Rehab team did not readmit her for almost a not.until just before the program’s unexpected demise. |> In many ways Julie’s actions accorded with traditional gender ideals I' of#a: responsible Haitian mother, the potomitan of Haitian society. At Lstake was her ability to obtain resources to care for her dependents and herself. The resort to threats to force a change in what she perceived as S^drtdifferent bureaucratic policies (Herzfeld 1992,) could be interpreted as 1^ah'act of desperation, although, as discussed below, these acts paralleled, ihe. Way other viktim used aggression to resolve disputes when other I alternatives had failed. Julie’s behavior may have arisen from depression I and misery, as well as anger I would like to suggest, however, that the attempt to extract additional benefits from the Fund through “delin??4iicnt” acts, as Dr. Thomas called them, could also be interpreted as I resistance to the Fund’s policies. To some degree Julie’s protests were ? a* Pointed critique that echoed throughout my work at the institution: I'Why should the Fund provide medications and medical treatment when jUtS^beneficiaries could not eat? ^*.jMany therapy group clients who had previously received direct J^'f^hiancial aid from FIRED echoed Julie’s complaints. In frustration over i th,e‘ continued demands for direct financial gifts. Dr. Thomas forcefully Sf'rejtSCted such claims: ‘‘Nou pa labank, nou paJeta, nou pa Bondye”— J “We’re not the bank, we’re not the state, and we’re not God.” She stated I in more than one therapy group that other charitable organizations or ; missionary groups—for example, CARE, UNICEF, or Feed the Chil,;dreii--;had programs that would provide for daily subsistence. It was ? clear, however, that viktim preferred that a single institution meet all Etheir needs. > ,i*lln late July 1998 a second incident occurred involving a dispute about I the’Tund’s benefits between another viktim beneficiary and Dr. Thomas. ;■ After an argument with Dr. Thomas, Jean Belzor was yelling as he exited pher^ 'office. Within earshot of staff and other beneficiaries, he threateqpd to pour gasoline on her car and burn her to death. Dr. Manata, Alphonse Montina, and another staff member of the Community-Police i'Melations team, Henri Claude, came out into the main office area to try tp calm the situation. They threatened to call the police if Jean did not yedve the premises. He was escorted out of the building to the gate of g the lakou by one of the Fund’s security officers. The Fund alerted,Dany r Fabien, director of the Bureau Poursuites et Suivi, about the threats p^ainst Dr. Thomas.^^ A couple of days later Jean returned to the Fund I with lawyers affiliated with MICIVIH. He accused the Fund staff of

z36

Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

attacking him and depriving him of his human rights. To resolve the dispute, HRF staff members referred him and his lawyers to another lawyer who worked with the Fund’s legal counseling program. That Jean employed the services of lawyers affiliated with MICIVIH was significant on many levels. Soliciting the support of lawyers was a tactical improvement on making threats to resolve disputes. His choice of lawyers affiliated with MICIVIH was politically astute: given the fac­ tions and disputes within the aid apparatus—and the pattern of rumor, suspicion, and accusations that flowed through it—persuading)me^ hers of a competing human rights assemblage that former MICIV staff members at the Fund had violated his rights was shrewd. Over time good working relationships were reestablished between Jean and the Fund but not without his committing to dialogue and negotiation as a way to manage conflict. What was at stake? 'Although the issues motivating Jean’s threats related specifical y to the distribution of victim assistance funds, they, also concerned personal and institutional power. Jean was one of the spokespersons and leaders of the Organization of Coup Victims, a group of nearly fifteen hundred victims Attorney Camille Leblanc, the future minister of justice, pro­ vided legal representation. Thus OVKD claimed privileged status as one of the earliest victims’ associations and because of Leblanc’s advocacy on its members’ behalf. OVKD members argued that many of the vic­ tims’ organizations that had emerged in the postcoup period were not composed of “real victims.” They alleged that politicians were manipu­ lating some victims’ organizations in order to promote their own agen­ das. One group that Jean had accused of political collusion was the Fondasyon 30 Sektanm. He also criticized Dany Fabien himself, who was managing the approximate sum of U.S.$4 million that the Govern­ ment of Haiti had allocated to the BPS to provide aid to victims. Jean appeared to have other motives for making public accusations against other actors in the victim assistance apparatus: political iden­

tity, status, and the performance of masculinity. He was notorious in the international and national aid apparatus for his aggressiveness in advocating for his rights and those of fellow OVKD members. During an interview he informed me that he wanted to expand OVKD into a national organization with technical and infrastructural assistance from the Fund. Furthermore, his accusations about the public accountability of institutions and the authenticity of viktim, as well as his desire that OVKD receive “political recognition,” were to some extent gendere according to ideals of pubUc masculinity. In many respects Jean was

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i concerned with maintaining his status as the “patron” of a large base of f. viktim “clients.” As discussed in chapter 3, many of the men who nar­ rated their suffering in the therapy groups were concerned with their loss of status and honor because of their victimization. On the one hand, aggressive, threatening actions and overt forms of coercion and corrup­ tion indicated a gendered form of desperation. These acts also displayed victims’ feelings of having been thwarted in their struggles to attain personal and political goals (Moore 1994). On the other hand, the pub­ lic, highly charged displays of aggression were also performances of responsibility and accountability for those to whom one was obligated, in this case, a large political organization. Apart from using interpretive lenses of gender and political culture to explain these disputes, it is possible to interpret Jean’s acts from the perspective of ethnopsychiatry. Among the mental health profes­ sionals that I observed at the Mars/Kline Psychiatric Center and in the therapy groups, biomedical theories operated alongside Haitian tradi­ tional conceptions of the interrelationship of depression, anxiety, and injustice. Some Haitian and international mental health caregivers who knew Jean felt that his behavior typified that of “bipolar disorder.” Such speculation about Jean’s personality and behavior was characteristic of Western biomedical theories of mood and behavior. However, the Hai­ tian nurses characterized viktim exhibiting agitation, anger, and sensi-. r tivity to slights or perceived injustices as part of a state of being cho, or hotheaded. This organic state of distress resulted from the prolonged, cumulative imbalances of hot, cold, and blood that accumulated in the body after having been victimized (see chapter 3). That being said, ■Haitian traditional and biomedical theories did not solely medicalize : suffering; rather, they acknowledged the clinical effects of routine psyi. chosocial stressors on patients’ health. Interestingly, HRF staff members felt that Jean and Dr. Thomas were : both responsible for the fightj and they categorized Dr. Thomas’s behav■ ior in terms of the same frame of “embodiment” used for both Julie and Jean, treating it as the result of long-term frustrations. In addition to ( these frustrations,, it is possible in her case that over time compassion fatigue or secondary trauma may have provoked irritation, skepticism. or indifference to the needs of Haitian victims. Dr. Thomas’s history of work with Haitian refugees, as well as her own experiences of victim­ ization and dechoukaj, cannot be discounted as possible causes of her brusque treatment of viktim. Such conflicts led me to wonder about 'the possibilities for ethical, compassionate, and egalitarian relationships

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between providers and beneficiaries of services, especially when regu­ lated by neomodern forms of rationalized rehabilitation. I also consid­ ered such questions personally. What should be the ethical relationship between anthropologists and those with whom they work, especially if one adopts a subject position of advocate, confidante, or therapist? The multiple roles that anthropologists adopt in advocacy settings can lead to persistent double binds regarding the ethics of gift giving and the practices of compassion, especially when conducting research about these same social dynamics. For example, HRF staff members often complained to me about Dr. Thomas’s tendency to lose her tem­ per with staff or viktim. I experienced this firsthand when Dr. Thomas accused me of causing strife in the Rehab Program. She held me respon­ sible for some of the delinquent behavior of the beneficiaries and the medical network care providers in Martissant, presumably because I had facilitated their admission into the program after the Novem­ ber 1997 International Tribunal against Violence toward Women. Dr. Thomas also accused me of undermining her authority when she learned that I provided personal funds to one of the Fund’s beneficiaries on one occasion when the Rehab Program was unable to do so expediently. She asserted that giving money directly would continue the pernicious cycles of inequality and dependency between donor and recipient of aid and between the victim and the agent of rehabilitation, an argument reminiscent of critiques of welfare and other “reparations” programs. In response to my somewhat naive assertion that I just wanted to help or “do good,” Dr. Thomas stated that I could not help viktim indefinitely. After a period of reflection I agreed with many of her points, but I was disturbed by the problematic dynamics of power occurring between giv­ ers and receivers of aid. During the course of my fieldwork, I also tried to interpret Dr. T om as’s motivations for doing this kind of work. She occasionally joked that for her the job was about “le quinze, le trente”—reiemng to the biweekly salary payments that the ADF program staff received—and that she was not there to save others, to help, or to “do good bey on . the requirements of the job. Yet she had worked under great personal duress to provide assistance—material, psychological, and sustain­ able—to the viktim she served. Questions that Dr. Thomas raised in the therapy groups are relevant here: To what extent should a past trau matic history justify or rationalize present behavior? What obligations are there to viktim, and are they entitled to benefits in perpetuity? The ongoing presence of ensekirite made answering these questions difficult.

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•

239

e ensekirite, militarization, and retribution \

aftermath of the two incidents described above. Dr. Thomas said, ' “These types of threats are the ones that must be watched. The first one fwarning of sabotage. Any further warnings are too late. The Hair,, pattern is that something random can occur when we are engaged ; ip other work.” Indeed, the pattern of seemingly random violence, with J ffii'btives ranging from criminal to political, added to the frustration and i nervousness already present in the building. ADF staff members were ^Ih fact being attacked outside the institution. For example, in August 1 -1998 the ASOSYE staff woman whose brother was alleged to have been Torturer during the coup years was carjacked, a crime that was occurt "ting with increasing frequency in Poft-au-Prince. As word spread in the j ADF building of the incident, it increased the sense of uncertainty felt by i'A^ni'any staff members. Another rupture in routine occurred a few weeks v'l^ater. Rene Ibrahim, the new Human Rights Education staff member, h" \yas driving his car when it broke down unexpectedly. Soon afterward f S|>hieone riding on a motorbike pulled over and offered assistance. Rene jiv /efiised the help, but then the would-be Samaritan pulled out a gun arid I robbed Rene of his briefcase. The briefcase happened to contain docunXents from the Fund. The staff classified the robbery as a crime rather ffian a politically motivated incident, but its characteristics were pecu-

I signaled what was becoming known as a pattern of attacks that : Could not be easily categorized. p This new pattern was one of the features of ensekirite. In a similar ^Tuation, Dr. Andrea Baptiste, one of the directors of the Chanm Fanm ! ydmen’s clinic, was traveling by car earlier that year to a meeting with , the Preval administration. Baptiste was a prominent member of Presis: ,dent Aristide’s first administration and a Lavalas supporter with longI sfdnding commitments to the democratic struggle. While en route with ■her sister to the meeting with Preval to discuss an April 1-998 raid on the t clinic by the Haitian National Police, her car broke down. An unknown I than pulled over to offer assistance. Dr. Baptiste declined. The motorist i P^led out a gun and demanded the briefcase in her possession. She gave if to him. Unfortunately, the case contained the clinic staff’s paychecks b^nd other documentation relevant to the HNP attack. I pattern of violence occurred with more frequency in relation to I tfie shifting political context, especially in late 1998 and in early 1999, I when ensekirite peaked. On the surface such crimes could be interpreted I ,as merely criminal; however, there was always a measure of uncertainty.

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Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

The motive cOuld also have been political. For example, when I spoke with her later about this incident, Dr. Baptiste did not attribute a politi­ cal motivation to the attack. Only in retrospect was it significant that it occurred just as she was on her way to an important political meeting, especially considering how this type of crime occurred in other contexts. acts are the benchmarks of ensekirite. The gossip, rumors, and P|-^^"^^’^'’speculation that these incidents engendered also reinforced the sense of .5/^^ risk and ensekirite in daily life. . 12- Furthermore, the speculation about the origins of such nefarious combined with the actual attacks on the institution, characterized negative dimensions of bureaucraft in an overarching environment of ensekirite. Like contexts in which misfortune is divined as caused (and remedied) by witchcraft, ADF members made continual attempts to divine whether these attacks were the work of occult actors who were orchestrating efforts to sabotage the institution and its staff members. Significantly, in the weeks after the attack Rene began to wear dark sun­ glasses and a style of dress reminiscent of the tonton makout, perhaps as a measure of self-protection or as a warning to others that was sug­ gestive of malevolent occult power. Such measures were also related to insecurity and trauma in the workplace. A few weeks afterward, Rene lost his position because he was unable to function at work. None­ theless, his deployment of symbols of Duvalierist necropolitics for self­ protection paralleled similar strategies to increase security at the ADF

I

I

institutional level. The ADF Human Rights Fund, comprising foreign managers and staff members and Haitian “experts” in human rights, and democracy, employed militarist tactics that in some ways evoked historical preda­ tory political practices. The ADF management responded to the deblozay. inside the Fund and the ensekirite outside by hiring more security officers. ADF alteady retained the services of the Citadelle private secu­ rity firm, as did most U.S.-funded projects at the time. HRF added the services of a well-connected, freelance security officer who was armed but wearing civilian attire. He was a mobile sovereign, much like the individuals making up the Duvalierist makout apparatus. In addition to this, HRF staff members paid market vendors on the street to act as unof­ ficial informants to keep track of individuals who regularly approached the institution’s gates. ADF could do little to provide security for its sta outside of headquarters, but key personnel were given walkie-talkies to communicate with ADF and one another. All the staff with radios had code .names, as did persons and locations in Port-au-Prince they

Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

Z41

routinely visited. The Fund communicated on its own frequency, as did other projects of this sort. In case others were listening, staff members took care not to reveal details about the location of ADF personnel and their daily activities. ADF also hired armed security guards for the homes of key program officers. Institutional attempts to create additional security had the unintended consequences of further provoking viktim. As another precaution after the incidents with Julie and Jean, the Rehab Program suspended the therapy groups and victim assistance for one week to assess the best way to protect ADF and HRF staff. The suspension of services was a warning to beneficiaries of the negative consequences that would be meted out to all as the result of any further threatening protests against the Fund’s staff or the project as a whole. After these incidents HRF management met with a broad assemblage of victims’ organizations to reinforce the need for “civilized” expressions of dissent between its patient-client beneficiaries and ADF/HRF, their patron. These protective measures only served to increase beneficiaries’ frustrations and their specific grievances against the Fund. During the suspension staff members considered alternative spatial arrangements in the ADF physical plant that would permit the Rehab Program to provide confidential assistance to its beneficiaries while containing the jaotfintial “insecurity” that viktim represented. The first solution was to create “offices” in the storage depot in the lakou behind the building. The second strategy was to have viktim enter through another entrance, not the main one that led to the HRF and ASOSYE reception area. To r^ach this entrance viktim had to pass by the armed, uniformed secu­ rity officers. Many viktim who visited ADF were uncomfortable around these guards. The presence of the new freelance security person also hfeightened the perception of covert and overt threat, should the Fund’s beneficiaries transgress acceptable boundaries of interaction. Moreover, i the segregation” of viktim exacerbated their feelings of being treated I as second-class citizens. It is deeply ironic that the Fund resorted to practices of militarization in order to protect a program intended to heal, educate, and advocate for victims of human rights violations. Although its security practices arose from the intent to protect staff members, in effect, all beneficiaries w6re punished for the threat posed by a few, enacting patterns of dis­ cipline reminiscent of those during the Duvalier dictatorship. In many respects staff members and the institution adopted sovereign forms of power and authority to protect themselves against the very repression

242,

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and intimidation they were working to eradicate. For example, later that fall the Fund rented a small suite of offices a few blocks away that had been used by the Medical Unit under MICIVIH. Eventually ’ the Rehab Program relocated to this suite of offices, known as Base 2.. The Human Rights Education and Community-Police Relations staff mem­ bers protested the move. Some, felt that receiving independent program space was an undeserved benefit rather than banishment, especially because Dr. Thomas had allegedly mismanaged the program s budget. The details of the fiscal shortfall surfaced in the aftermath of the afore­

mentioned irruptions of routine practice. Whereas the physical separation of the programs calmed some of the tensions in the ADF building, the transfer of the Rehab Program failed to solve the ongoing problems of communication between the program and its beneficiaries and between HRF and ASOSYE regarding the just and ethical distribution of aid resources. The grievances that arose dur­ ing this time reflected perceptions of breached alliances or obligations between aid givers and receivers, as well as between actors of more equal status in the aid apparatus. Such disputes raise the question of the “tyranpy of the gift” as aid flows through social networks of unequal power. Giving ... seems to establish a difference and an inequality of status between donor and recipient, which can in certain instances become a hierarchy: if this hierarchy already exists, the gift expresses and legitimizes it. Two opposite movements are thus contained in a single act. The gift decreases the distance between the protagonists because it is a form of sharing, and it increases the social distance between them because one is now indebted to the other.... It can be, simultaneously or successively, an act of generosity or of violence; in the latter case, however, the violence is disguised as a disinterested gesture, since it is committed by means of and

in the form of sharing. (Godelier 1999

The transactions that I have described thus far range from gifts to grants and encoded either implicit or explicit expectations of recip­ rocal gifts or the indirect fulfillment of bureaucratic procedures by a grant recipient. Such exchanges occurred between institutions, between institutions and individuals, and between individuals. The respective power and status of givers and receivers of gifts and grants engenders perceptions of these exchanges as either generosity or violence. The power and status of those who gain or lose in the course of such trans­ actions is also integral to whether bureaucraft is viewed as productive or repressive and malevolent. In the next section I discuss how concepts

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of alliance, obligation, and exchange arising from Haitian culture influ‘ enced these dynamics. i* ^MOUN PA’: PATRONS, CLIENTS, AND STATE SURROGATES

J .Jt is possible to interpret the way viktim approached the Fund—for i; .health care, employment, housing, or other forms of ankadreman—as ' the reproduction of historical client-patron patterns. As discussed earr the patron-client relationship was exploited to an extreme under the ^^^ jDilvalier dictatorship (Lundahl 1979: 350-59; 1992: 384-97). Agencies ( dike the Fund acted as surrogates for the Haitian state. In the one-on^ne relationships between the ADF manager and prospective beneficia.’ ’ ries of HRF’s Rehab Program, the chief of party was approached much [ ' in the same manner as the "gz apd others banded together to reconstruct a road using their own manpal labor. In the interim period between the disaster and their efforts to , .reconstruct the community, a family had built a house where the road been washed away. The reconstruction group wanted the family to , l^ave, but they refused. Finally, Denise’s group threatened the family, seized the house, and forced them into hiding. At the time that this story vt was told the family was still hiding in Leogane, Friends alerted the piolice about the clash, and state investigators fCame to evaluate the circumstances surrounding the land dispute. The jij de pe (justice of the peace) asked for Denise’s son David and attempted *to take him into custody for questioning. Sylvie and Liliane affirmed fhat Denise physically attacked the justice in order to protect her son. M. Overwhelmed by the opposition, the investigators fled the area. The ,,^jhstice issued a warrant for Denise’s arrest, but to my knowledge she was never arrested. ‘ Denise’s family’s willingness to use threats and physical force was not tbe only cause of fear and mistrust. Sylvie, Liliane, and Monique argued ^hat Denise and her family should not be considered real victims in spite > of the fact that they were the targets of attacks during the coup years and '’^^d been forced to flee. According to them, when Liliane and her sons returned from the Dominican Republic where they had fled an mawonaj, ' tfiey initially seemed to be as they had been before, partisans of Aris­ tide who were in search of assistance to rebuild their lives. After a short •period, however, they assumed the role of neomodern “overseers” who “'fiatrolled the bidonvil. Their control included functioning as brokers or gatekeepers to the domain of humanitarian assistance when patrons in ^the aid apparatus authorized Denise’s family to organize victims’ advo/'Chcy groups after other residents of the area began to return in 1995. On some level brokerage of access to the humanitarian assemblage was a; form of speculation, an investment in the potential value of commodi&d suffering and trauma when circulated within the realm of governqiental and nongovernmental humanitarian assistance. It was consistent with the marketing activity that had been the main form of livelihood for women like Sylvie, Liliane, and Denise in particular but also of many other small-scale entrepreneurs. Denise and her sons eventually acted' f brokers facilitating access for others to aid NGOs or programs or

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Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

blocking it through intimidation. For example, members of the family first received scholarships for school-age dependents in their family from ATD Quart Monde (Fourth World), a French organization dedicated to the eradication of persistent poverty that was based in the Fontamara section west of Martissant. It provided aid to viktim throughout the coup period.-“Ka Monn” (Fourth World) or “Kay Monn” (World House), as my informants mistakenly called it, provided medical care, housing assis­ tance, tuition support for children, and job training for its beneficiaries. By the time I was able to interview its director, a French physician, later that fall, its victim assistance program had been discontinued. I told the director about some of the challenges the Human Rights Fund faced with victim assistance, and he admitted, somewhat reluctantly, that ATD Quart Monde had also had difficulties with viktim because they pres­ sured it to provide financial assistance beyond its capacity. He added that there had also been problems with graft and competition among its clients that evolved outside of the organization. The extent to which David/Jiraf and his compatriots were both physically coercive and financially exploitative in their role as brokers emerged in another interview with a woman named Danielle Marcia. Danielle was desperately haunted by the ghosts of murdered family members and had .to resort to prostitution to support her remaining children (James zoo8). Since 1996, after the murder of her husband and two sons, one of whom was a member of the new Haitian National Police, she had no protection or support. With Sylvie in attendance, I asked what Danielle most needed to survive. During the discussion she mentioned being intimidated by Denise’s son David when she sought international aid for her children’s tuition. DM: Tneed everything. At the same time that I need help for my health, my children ... are forsaken like good-for-nothings. Because other children get up in the morning, find some other little friends, they get dressed right away. They are very clean. They go to school. Mine are abandoned. I feel that in the end I’d like them to go to school. . . . But it’s when you’re in the house with a bunch of kids, that they [neighborhood gang members] unleash a plot against you [mare konminezon] . . . when they see that there is no family to take care of you . . . E]: But the problem with David, can you explain what happened? DM: Yes. There was a school that they had over there—what was it called? “La main ouverte”—^that’s it right?

Bu'reaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

SSF:

2-57

Yes.

DM: [David] told me that the director [of ATD Quart Monde] used to give opportunities [scholarships], and if I gave him some money he’d go talk to him. I could give him H$6o for them to take two children, because they don’t take all of them ... for them to give uniforms and shoes. I wouldn’t have to go to the school—and the school was one where you had to pay each month—and I wouldn’t have to pay when I didn’t have the money for it, so I agreed. I sent the kids in October. As soon as November came they had to stop because I didn’t have money to pay [David]. I made them withdraw. I didn’t want the young man to hurt me. I let them keep the money. David derpanded ongoing payment for brokering her access to the scholarship program. Even though the organization assisted with the tuition and supplies, access was the key issue. Danielle was expected to continue to pay David for his mediation. Indeed^ David’s role as trauma broker extended beyond mediation to physical coercion. The fear of crossing him was so great that Danielle had sacrificed her children’s education rather than risk their collective safety. Danielle and Sylvie explained that even after the “restoration of democracy” the neighborhood gangs controlled their lives. t ■

DM: [When] you see them coming for you, you have to give them [money] or they’ll crush you to the ground. . . . [Whether] you are at home, if I’m down the street. . . SSE:

It’s a command [yon mandaj. They could shoot you.

DM: ... if I’m not inside, or where I sent the children, they’ll come for you. If you say something or betray them, selling them out could mean your life [yo kapab frape ou ate]. Because when they’re out at night, you don’t know. . . . That’s why since I came into this quarter, I respect them. I warned my children too for. , them to not say anything about it because I don’t want them to hurt them. During the conversation about the threat Denise and her children posed as overseers in the zone, Sylvie, Liliane, and Monique stated that tome of the family members had returned to Martissant armed after the reinstallation of President Aristide. Sylvie alleged that Denise’s sons and a group of other youths returned from the Dominican Republic

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spouting anti-Aristide rhetoric and boasting that the group to which they belonged would carry out a coup d’etat against Aristide should he be reelected. At that time, however, neighborhood residents did not know that members of Denise’s family had shifted from the pro­ Aristide position they had once espoused. As time passed and the zone remained excluded from the reconstruction efforts in other parts of the city, Denise’s sons operated in th^ bidonvil much as had members of the coup apparatus years before. Many residents of the zone also did not consider Denise and her family legitimate victims because they were doing well financially in comparison with their neighbors. Marie-Rose’s husband, Alain, who was one of Denise’s older sons, owped a small boutique in the bidonvil. Denise owned two houses, albeit tiny structures poorly constructed of cinder blocks with tin roofs. Her relative wealth sparked indignation among other women besides Sylvie and Liliane, as did their move to take land whose true owner (I was told) was an absentee landlord resid­ ing in the Dominican Republic. Apparently he was too afraid to come to the neighborhood but collected rent through a third party. Another source of resentment was that Denise’s group allegedly received state funds to establish a community health center in the area. In 1998 a formal sign designated the spot where a building was going to be con­ structed, although the center had not been built by the time I left Haiti in 2000. Sylvie and Liliane charged that Denise and her kd had pock­ eted the state funds. Sylvie and Liliane also made disturbing accusations about the HWA and DRC initiative to form rape survivors’ groups in the area. Liliane and Sylvie claimed that one of the local spokespersons for the HWA had exploited them before the arrival of the MAB international laAvyers and women’s rights activists. The international women’s group was prepar­ ing to present their cases to an investigative team of the Inter-American Court of Human Rights. They claimed that the HWA representative asked them to pay her a fee for the opportunity to testify about their victimization to the international women’s delegation. I confirmed this claim with other survivors who were in these groups. Sylvie and Liliane’s bureaucraft accusations against the HWA mem­ ber and their expressions of resentment and frustration did not go unchallenged. While Sylvie and Liliane accused the HWA and Denise’s kd of corruption, Ginette and other members of the HWA approached me at. Chanm Faiim to level charges against Sylvie. They wanted to make sure that I was aware of the “gray zone” (Levi 1989 [1986]) in

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: 'Which she operated as a victim, advocate. As discussed previously, SyljWie was the victim of a second “human rights” violation early in 1996, I' when four young men in the Martissant zone threatened her for doc,, 'iittenting human rights abuse cases in the area. Ginette alleged that ' Sylvie’s second attack actually was not a human rights violation but \ something that she deserved. According to Ginette, Sylvie had arranged ’fq«share with neighbors some of the goods that were given to local HWA members from the depot that had been established in the zone in ^e postcoup period. The goal was to distribute some of these donated 'goods for resale, another example of how compassion economies can generate occult economies as aid develops a social life. Ginette accused ,,,.j§5flvie of reneging ort the agreement and implied that this broken angaj• ;rnan justified the. threats and second assault against Sylvie. Sylvie had ■filed a complaint with the police over the incident. The HNP issued a * 'inanda (subpoena) to compel the men to appear in court, but they were ^^^'able to bribe the judge to have the charges dropped. Another accusation that Ginette, Denise, and even Dr. Baptiste lev,.eled at Sylvie concerned whether she had embezzled funds from her f, “Victims’ group. Ginette claimed that Sylvie was withholding the medi’l^pal certificates that Dr. Baptiste provided for viktim until they paid her 1,00 gourdes (H$2o). They implied Sylvie kept the money for herself. IJ^oreover, Ginette and Denise accused Sylvie of acting as a broker who >.5 prevented or facilitated access to me at the clinic or in the neighbor1 “lood.^® The charges leveled at Sylvie were disturbing and followed a

pattern that had begun on my return to the clinic earlier that September. 4 Sylvie had heard about Ginette’s and Denise’s charges of illicit accutoulation of resources from the compassion economy. When I next met With Sylvie, I chose not to confront or accuse her but rather to present the allegations and to interview her formally about them. Interestingly, her response resembled the bureaucratic rationale to which I was becom­ ing accustomed at the Fund and that I increasingly witnessed in my ^hiteraction with the USAID development community. As previously dis­ cussed, institutions receiving U.S. government funding through USAID needed to demonstrate accountability and the completion of results in ■formal and informal reporting and audits. Sylvie’s testimony had some of this bureaucratic character. She presented a biographical narrative in ^hich she performed her status as authentic militan, viktim, and victims’ I, lights advocate. After reiterating her history and all that she had done to , help women in the community, Sylvie explained her logic for requiring members of her organization to contribute financially to the kes. In her

Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

H

words, her organization would only have long-term security and stabil­ ity with a depo (storehouse, deposit) of funds and goods, like an endow­ ment, that members of the group could rely on in difficult times. Each person needed to contribute to the collective organization before Sylvie would facilitate his or her access to other charitable organizations. When I asked about the allegations that she herself consumed these funds, she stated that she needed to pay for the formatting and printing of the orga­ nization’s official documents and for a. trustworthy copier. The informa­ tion in the documents was sensitive and could not be circulated freely. She also needed to pay for her transportation to the capital and back from Martissant. The remainder went into the organization’s emergency fund. She reminded me that with one child who was regularly in the hos­ pital and others at home, she was not profiting from this work. I could not be sure of the truth and knew that it would be beyond my capacity to determine it. However, I felt that her presentation accorded with what I had known of her circumstances and her behavior with individuals in the community with whom we had worked. In the days after the interview, however, Sylvie began to pressure me for more financial aid. I reminded her that we were coming to the end of our agreed-on “scope of work” and that I would be commencing with Denise shortly. Sylvie protested and suggested that we just continue as we had been, but I maintained that I needed to honor the arrangement that we had made earlier that fall. But before this could happen, another critical event (described below) occurred in the zone that prevented me from working with Denise. In some ways it confirmed Sylvie’s and Liliane’s claims that Denise and her family were resented in the neighbor­ hood. I had assumed, wrongly, that apart from the periodic incursions into the zone by the Haitian National Police to round up zenglendo, as gang members were usually referred to, residents of the neighborhood had little recourse to resist gangs. Rather, collective defense could be used as a means of resistance with the risk of reproducing predatory forms of extrajudicial discipline in enclaves such as Martissant.

B K B K B K K K B B H B B B B B I B 1

z6o

‘brigad vijilans’: neighborhood watch OR VIGILANTE BRIGADE?

In this section I reconstruct a crisis in which members of Denise’s family were targeted with collective violence. The account raises several issues regarding the ambiguous relationship between perpetrators and victims and between terror and compassion economies as collective groups

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attempt to resist repression. The story also demonstrates how acts of group violence such as dechoukaj can be means to resist oppressors, but they can also have the character of lynchings. Similarly, brigad vijilans can be neighborhood watch associations like the groups that resisted the de facto regime during the 1991-94 coup years, but they can also transform themselves into vigilante brigades—collective retributive mobs that engage in witch-hunts. Given that Haitian judicial and security apparatuses have historically been predatory, corrupt, or weak, the absence of an accountable, responsible state permits extrajudicial, paramilitary, gang, and retributive violence to flourish. The ensekirite that results makes the determination of “victims” and “perpetrators” even more difficult. I have reconstructed the sequence from Sylvie’s initial statements of what had transpired. She did not witness them herself but elicited the details from neighbors the evening they occurred, November 19,1998. In the days after the attack I also spoke to some of Sylvie’s partisans to confirm the details. In early 1999 I was able to interview Denise and one of her sons about what had happened. Their narrative follows the first version below. The event demonstrated the unpredictable irruptions of coll^ctive violence that characterized routines of rupture in Haiti. Like the

B example of La Fierte Gondvienne, scapegoating and outbreaks of group B violence were fully enmeshed in recent histories of competition, violence, I vengeance, and chronic conditions of frustration. They also had distal

B B B K B I |f K H n R i

roots in other forms of necropolitical victimization, a culture of impunity, and Haiti s (un)rule of law (Mendez, O’Donnell, and Pinheiro 1999). On November 2,0, 1998) Sylvie came to the Fund. I was surprised because I normally met with her at the clinic and her home. She was agitated and excited to tell me what had happened in Martissant after I left the previous day. She said that it was a “glorious day” and a’ “true victory” in the zone. On the afternoon of Thursday, November 19, David/ Jiraf had threatened a young adult in the zone but had been thwarted by another young man in the neighborhood. The events escalated into what could look on the surface like an incident of mob violence but were actually much more complex. As we sat in one of the Fund’s offices, Sylvie began telUng the tale.

B H

Members of Denise s family acted. They tried to take a television from a family for themselves. A young man in the home tried to prevent them from doing so. David pulled him by the neck and forced his head down on a rock. He then took his machete and started to strike him on the neck X^ith it. Fritzner Masson [a young adult man in the neighborhood] stopped David from cutting him.

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Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

Other residents of the zone then joined Fritzner and all of them attacked David with machetes (yo rache sou li). Sylvie continued: They told me that they decapitated him near his right eye fyo di-m’ yo dekape-r bo zye dwat]. They broke through the skull [tet li pese] and cut his whole body and foot.

One of David’s brothers who had come to protect him was seriously injured. At some point leta (the state) came and took David to the hos­ pital. In Denise’s version of the story, an ambulance came and took him away. In another version of the story that I heard days after the incident, the police had saved him. As other Martissant residents developed and elaborated the story, I was told that the unit that retrieved him consisted of members of CIMO—the Gompagnie d’Intervention et de Maintien de I’Orde, a special operations unit trained in riot control—rather than the regular corps of HNP officers that sometimes patrolled the zone. The Martissant residents who gave this version alleged that the officers were associates of Ginette’s husband, but I chose not to pursue this line of inquiry with her. If true, it raises further questions about victim status, divisions within the police force, the entrenchment of alliances within state institutions, and the continued presence of retributive jus­ tice as a means to resolve disputes. ■ Sylvie told me with some satisfaction that she thought David was at the General Hospital, but she wanted to see him with her own eyes to be sure. She then said that after David had been taken awayj Denise and the rest of her family threatened the residents of the community. They claimed that they would call in “reinforcements” from Cite Soleil to retaliate by burning up the neighborhood (yo praV konsonmen zbnnan). I had been told previously that David/Jiraf’s gang was affiliated with a larger gang in Cite Soleil that controlled organized crime and the flow of narcotics and that policed the poor residents of that neighbor­ hood.^’ The Martissant residents against whom threats of, retribution were made would not have taken them lightly. I suspect that the Cite Soleil group with which they worked were col­ lections of individuals who evolved into organized groups of criminals/ terrorists now known as chime (chiniaera). The chime, named after a mythical dragonlike monster,^® were linked to the pro-Aristide sector after his reelection in 2,001 (Fatton 2.002). However, Robert Fatton (2002: 24 n.) states that in 1997, when a senior member of the Fanmi Lavalas party described encountering these groups in Cite Soleil, the chime seCmed to be politically independent. The chime can be likened to

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H t^e mobile sovereigns or “war machines” (Deleuze and Guattari 1987) 5)^“0arlier historical periods. As discussed earlier; such groups use neoip jhjodern forms of necropolitics to terrorize others. Their alleged political '^^^ogiance to Aristide might have been a “new” partnership, but their K s loyalty was most likely temporary and could have been procured by 1 interests offering multiple forms of capital. While there might K. fl^^ve been some sort of linkage between these organized criminals and B political parties, it was not purely political, given the shifting, ambiguK bPs, and elusive nature of the criminal bands. Occult groups such as generated power through intimidation, which fomented B reproducing and reinforcing the economy of terror in B Haiti’s political economy of trauma. I' not long after Denise and her family made threats |; '\l,gninst residents of the zone, the HNP stormed the neighborhood and B, ^^enapted to round up the remaining members of the gang, forcing the I caught to lie face-down in the middle of the crossroad. The I .^prihce then beat the alleged members of the ko with batons. Denise and gpJ Jxer family managed to flee the area and were not caught. When the resiI ^nts of the neighborhood told the police about the threats of retribution, I police encouraged them to form a brigad vijilans.to defend themselves I pamst potential incursions by other gangs. Earlier the same month MinI .v^tcr of Justice Antoine asked the Haitian people to form brigad vijilans I; ^p'Combat ensekirite and to prevent the “delinquency” of criminal youth. such groups had implicit if not explicit state sanction. b’ said, furthermore, that Fritzner had been collaborating with the fc. neighborhood of David and Denise’s family as a whole. ’' gone to the police to discuss the problem of the family H and they had given him a document that said that they recognized that v" the family was one accustomed to beating jij de pe [justices of the peace], * J police officers, and pulling guns on residents of the zone. So the < ^ document authorized him to kill David and to bring the body to them.

IApparently, on arriving in the zone, the police chastised Fritzner pubkept the terms of their agreement. Without I"' a guarantee of their protection, Fritzner was vulnerable and fled the I morning of November 20,199 8. I : before the events concluded on November 19, the group of angry I Residents—who at this point could be called a state-authorized brigad— I efforts to dechouke (uproot) neighborhood oppressors. I They demolished both of Denise’s homes and Alain and Marie-Rose’s

.1

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home and boutique. The group leveled these cinder-block structures to their foundations. That same evening Sylvie joined the group in patrol­ ling the borders of the zone from 5:00 p.m. until 2:00 a.m. When I returned to Martissant the following Tuesday, I saw that the homes and property of Denise and her family members had indeed been destroyed. Denise remained in hiding. I did not see her again until Feb­ ruary 1999, when she came out of hiding to be interviewed at the Fund with her second youngest son, Frangois, who was then in his late teens. Denise began her narrative with the events of November 19, noting that she had just finished with the marketing and returned home. While she was finishing her household chores, a neighborhood child came to tell her that someone was yelling at David and that a group of young men was attacking him (aji sou li) near the market. She asked the reason for the fight but did not receive an answer. Denise told me: You know how near where I five they like to rape a lot nowadays. I am against rape, because I am an activist [se yon fanm oganize ke mwen ye]. Do you understand me? Because I have suffered rape myself, and I am. against it. So by the time I arrived I intercepted them trying to assassinate my son. They were beating him, torturing him [matirize-l'], and crushing him. Then I ran and yelled for help. While I ran, they took him and went down [the mountain] with him. I ran to find his [older] brother, but when I arrived he wasn’t yet at home.

Later in the interview she said that the young men dumped David close to the niain road, assuming that he was dead. Denise arrived at her son’s side and realized that in fact he was not dead, as she had feared. Then two chef (“police chiefs” who were patrolling the neighborhood) called an ambulance. The medics were able to provide on-site emergency care and then took him to the hospital. Denise said next that they had attacked David because of the “good” he had done in the neighborhood. He had tried to reconstruct the road and helped to get the health center established. Moreover, he simply had “spirit.” She insisted that she got along with everyone in the zone and had no disagreements with anyone. She repeated that she had been an advocate for protecting rape victims and had testified to assist a wom­ en’s organization to prosecute a case that had transpired in the area the previous May. The implication was that she had not done anything for which retaliation was warranted. At this point I shared the accusations I had heard about Denise and her family thus far, including their controlling presence in the neighbor­ hood, their attack on the justice of the peace, and their taking land from

B ,.Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

2.65

Rf know the truth, but I wanted to hear their side of B tjie'story. Denise frowned angrily. Francois took over the conversation K- to,-explain the history of the problem between Fritzner and David. He I sgid that it began during the coup years. Many of the young adults had vyprked in community theater to organize youth and the community to j** ^triiggle for .democracy. With the escalation of attacks in popular areas P? Francois, David, and an elder son had fled across the |i, bbrder to the Dominican Republic. A group of fifteen youths from the zbfie, as well as Fritzner and two young women joined the family in a of refugees.2^ / When they returned from exile the divisions began within their L Frangois continued: I * .’When we returned there was FRAPH and they offered rice and cabI bage. . Fritzner and Jacques joined FRAPH as trainers.^^ But on our part we said that we went into hiding for one regime [Aristide], and thought ’ , that we needed to stay loyal to that regime. So they began to show off in r dront of me [because of their status with FRAPH], but I said that what they were doing was acting like makout, if they were stealing in order to eat, among other things.... So we waited for Aristide to return.

I “Francois explained that his family chose another route to financial f , ‘^kadreman. Before their return to the area at the end of 1993, they 'had heard that the National Office for Migration was offering aid to .“returning Haitians. Francois said proudly that their family fought to be political refugees and “unblocked” a substantial sum that xhey felt obliged to share with others who had been with them in texile. j ^ran^ois claimed, howevei; that Fritzner was jealous and wanted all the himself. He took a “Qaddafi”—a semiautomatic gun—that « he had borrowed from one of the other young men and aimed it at them , ip order to take the money. Francois next named all the members of the youth gang who were the u/^ real perpetrators” in the zone. He emphasized the good that his family ; ,had done to combat the impunity that permitted these “real” gang iiiemhers to commit kadejak (rape) at will. Francois implicated Fritzner in this group of youths who violated young women. He claimed that his family ^embers had been targeted on November 19 because of these struggles for justice. He emphasized that they had not deserved their victimization ,and said “there was an organization called Dekamo [ATD Quart Monde] « that they had asked to help children in the neighborhood to attend school.” Francois claimed, furthermore, that even the February 4,1994, attacks on Denise, Marie-Rose, and their family property and households were

Bureaucraft,- Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

somehow connected to Fritzner, in his capacity as a FRAPH trainer. Indeed, on a previous occasion Sylvie hinted that the rape of these two women might have been an act of vengeance, even as the crime fit under the criteria for “human rights abuses.” At the close of the mterview Francois alleged that all the young men associated with Fritzner used drugs, as did Sylvie herself, and that the problem was that as soon as money was offered to them it was used to feed their drug problem. He claimed that Sylvie even resorted to prostitution to feed her habit. Denise and Francois then asked me if I might be able to help them get visas to the United States. I told them that I was unable to do so but asked them to stay in touch. . By the time Francois had presented the last piece of inforination regarding Sylvie’s alleged personal “habits,” I had no means to de^tively verify his allegations. I was already aware that Sylvie would do whatever was necessary to ensure the welfare of her children. Early in December, while the Human Rights Fund prepared to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, Syl­ vie pressured me again to continue working with her. I said that I could not do so, despite the fact that Denise had fled Martissant. By this time I was fatigued with the challenges of working in the zone and wanted to learn more about the practice of community policing and political development assistance strategies employed in ADF’s other programs. Sylvie decided to write to Dr. Manata and me at the Fund to protest my decision to suspend her “aid.” In her letter she stated:

I

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267

? determined that it would be better for me to discontinue my research ; there temporarily and not risk her revenge or retaliation, or that of the ' individuals whose suffering she may have appropriated as a gatekeeper ^for her own ends. Once I had received word from the clinic staff a few ; months later that Sylvie had moved out of the zone, I returned to my work at Chanm Fanm. j’

;

f

f 5 I I I s, r 5

It’s my right. When you were in danger, I always took you out of it. h’s my right, my obligation [se dwa-m\ se devwa-m‘], because you’re my friend. As a friend I am working with you. I could lose my life at the very moment that I don’t have money to pay the criminals m the zone for passage.

t i '

Sylvie used the discourse of rights and responsibility that was employed in many human rights training sessions for victims and linked it to the obligations of reciprocity and personal alliances that were encom­ passed in angajman and moun pa. I did not have time to respond to her formally. The following day, Sylvie came to the Fund to see me but instead spoke with Dr. Manata about our conflict. During their conversation she became quite aggressive and told him that if I did not continue to support her she could no longer guarantee my safety m the zone. The implicit threat was not one that I could ignore, especial y given what I had learned about how conflicts escalate m the zone. After discussions with the Rehab staff and others working in Martissant, we

; ' I t J ■ 1 j ?

f

These stories of the social life of humanitarian assistance in Martissant demonstrate how postconflict aid to “insecure” or “transitional” states can become enmeshed in local politics, violence, retributive justice, and everyday ensekirite. Stories like these are disheartening at best and horrifying at worst. By the time the accusations were made that the women in Martissant or their family members had problems with drug use, resorted to “prostitution,” or even committed violence, I distrusted accusations viktim made against other viktim. I was also no Ionger shocked (or easily moved) by horrific trauma narratives. What was most distressing was the way the scarcity of resources—^local, national, and international—encouraged some of these individuals to use predatory practices to survive. Not least among those scarce resources was the humanitarian and development aid made available to these “poorest of the poor” by the international, national, and local organizations that targeted them for interventions. The patterns of accusation, counteraccusation, and strategic control of information were complex in Martissant, just as they were in the U.S. development realm. The contested truths of victim, perpetrator, and activist status remained difficult to determine. The complexity of /identity recalled another passage in the leaked April 12,1994, embassy cablegram. The point was titled “Lavalas and FRAPH: Same M.O., Overlapping Membership” and concerned the difficulty of distinguishihg the authors of violent acts during the coup years. In addition to having many of the same “members,” FRAPH has essentially the same modus operand! as the Lavalas “comites de quartier” [sic] that were sanctioned, and encouraged, during the Aristide presidency. The key difference is that the amorphous repression of popular discontent that is FRAPH is an instrument of the military, whereas the “comites de quartier” [sic] were the instruments of the executive. FRAPH is already grooming candidates, and wooing/terrorizing potential voters, in anticipation of local and parliamentary elections scheduled for this December.

I I f |

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|

j

2,

Bureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

'■ jBureaucraft, Accusations, and the Social Life of Aid

'

2,69

i’ '■

The comites de quartier were the same as the brigad vijilans. President Aristide urged that pro-democracy activists protect themselves against the coup apparatus by forming these groups. For the U.S. Mission, how­ ever, defining the indeterminate and sometimes overlapping categories of “villains” was instrumental to determining how it should respond to incidents of “human rights abuses.” As previously discussed, U.S. agen­ cies were ultimately concerned with accountability to the U.S. Congress rather than to Haitians and the Government of Haiti. Thus U.S. strat­ egies to facilitate postconflict reconstruction and justice in contexts where the roots of conflict are complex, historical, and opaque tend to favor U.S. interests by demonstrating discrete results that promote U.S. hafiohalTecunty rather than the interests of the transitional nation in

which such strategies are implemented. Furthermore, Francois’s account indicated how FRAPH was viewed by some as an aid organization that could ensure security and survival regardless of how its members terrorized and tortured thousands of individuals during the coup years. The National Office for Migration was another vehicle of social reinsertion after victimization and dis­ placement, as was ATD Quart Monde, MICIVIH, Medecins du Monde, HWA, MAB, the Human Rights Fund, and numerous others. These agencies could be placed along a political continuum that offered a selection of financial aid but never complete ankadreman. Their various political orientations and sources of funding did not pose ethical dilem­ mas for some viktim, especially when the latter were struggling not only to survive but also to gain political recognition of their plight. But what about the assertions that Denise’s family members and asso­ ciates had been recruited while in the Dominican Republic to participate in a future coup d’etat against Aristide, should he be reelected? How is it that desperately poor viktim returned from exile armed with semi­ automatic weapons? Some have alleged that the United States finance the training of anti-Aristide rebel forces in the Dominican Republic by channeling funds through the International Republican Institute, the development arm of the U.S. Republican Party.^^ Indeed, members of Denise’s ko were able to intimidate others, to demand ongoing com­ missions” for brokering access to assistance, and to act as “overseers in this bidonvil because of their weapons, however acquired. What other kinds of occult interventions have occurred that remain in the shadows? Sylvie had acted as a trauma broker and gatekeeper to the local, national, and international domains of humanitarian actors. She use several strategies to achieve revandikasyon for viktim: testimony an

- citing Gover­ nors Island Accord par. 6). Because the de facto regime violated the accord with the Harlan County incident, the Haitian Parliament would not consider the fate of the coup apparatus until- it was able to meet on October 7,1994. Parliament gave Aristide the power to grant amnesty for political crimes but not for human rights violations (Stotzky 1997: 40,119). 34- The guiding mandate of HRFII was as follows: “I’.-To support Haitians in their efforts to redress human rights abuses and provide assistance to victims, ■ and 2. To contribute to the growth of a society based on nonviolent, democratic principles.” Furthermore, “The specific objectives of the Fund are: a) to assist the victims of politically motivated violence and human rights abuse, and their famUies, by providing medical and trauma rehabilitation and lawyer referral services; b) to help prevent the recurrence of human rights abuses by the newlydeployed HNP; and c) to strengthen civil society institutions and initiatives, particularly in the areas of human rights monitoring, legal assistance, training and citizen involvement with the police in order to encourage a broad societal commitment to nonviolence and the rule of law and to create the local capacity required to realize such a commitment” (USAID 1998). 3 5. See the ADF 1997 memo, “Account of HRF’s Contact with Time Maga­ zine.” No additional source information available. CHAPTER THREE

I. The term potomitan also signifies the central post through which the Iwa manifest in the material world in the peristil (the temple where Vodou rituals take place).

306

Notes to Pages 138-149

z. On, plot, emplotment, and clinical narratives, see also Good 1995, 2.001; and Mattingly 1998. ' , • Pass (1988) estimated that in 1976, half of the Port-au-Pnnce popula­ tion lived in one-story homes of varying levels of permanence. The popula­ tion density was 600 persons per hectare, and one-third lived at a population density of more than 1,000 persons per hectare. Nearly 10 percent lived on the streets or slept on the doorsteps or “galleries” of homes because there was no room for each inhabitant (Pass 1988: 190). In 1976 the Saint Martm slum had a residential population density of 1,540 persons per hectare, which ottered each resident approximately i.x square meters of living space withm an average 5.1-square-meter household. At the time residential space in low-income areas in “Kingston, Panama, Bombay, Nairobi, Calcutta, and Hong Kong ranged from 0.6 to X.7 square meters per adult” (192,). Pass’s calculations give an aver­ age household size of six. Prom my observations, the average home size in the Martissant bidonvil was approximately the same as the Saint Martin average but had an even greater number of residents. 4. In- 2.005 USAID provided funds to rebuild roads in Martissant that had been washed out during these and other tropical storms as part of its new Haiti Transition Initiative. See USAID/OTI (Office of Transition Initiatives), Prom Dirt Road to Disarmament: The HTI Process at Work,” May 2005, www usaid .gov/our_work/cross-cutting_programs/transition_initiatives/country/haiti/ t0pic0505.html; last accessed March 2009. 5 When the U.S.-led MNP intervened in 1994, however, there was no systematic plan to disarm FAD’H, FRAPH,and other paramilitary groups. Instead, a voluntary “guns for cash” program was initiated, with minimal success. Nor was there a mandate for the MNP interveners to police Haiti directly. Instead, they were only to provide training and support to interim and civilian po ice forces. See Kathie Ktoreich, “Haiti’s Hidden Arms Are Worry as Cash-for-Guns Swap Starts,” Oiristian Science lAonitor, September 29,1994, 6 See Garry Pierre-Pierre, “As Haiti Embargo Tightens, Poor Children Get Hungrier,” ^ew Times, July 3, i994, http://query.nytimes.com/gst/ fullpage.html?sec=health&res=9Eo2E4D6io3CP93oA35754CoA96295826o; last accessed January 2009. . n . 7. See Kovats-Bernat 2006 on the plight of Haitian street children in-Portau-Prince. The author worked with orphans living in the vicinity of Portail Leogane, the bus/taxi station area at the southwestern edge of Port-au-Pnnce, not far from the Bolosse section of town. • 8 See www.trager.com. In this ethnography I cannot analyze the Approach s folk epistemology of embodiment; rather, I offer phenomenological observa­ tions from work with my clients, recognizing the cultural embeddedness of my biomedical understanding of anatomy and physiology. 9. I want to be cautious in the presentation of this material to avoid pos­ tulating a grand psychoanalytic theory of character analysis or of muscular armoring and affect^s has Wilhelm Reich (1991 [1945])10 Although none of my clients admitted to serving the spirits, the broad formulation of a sociocentric “self/body” (Becker 1991) that follows was com­ monly expressed regardless of their stated religious practice.

Notes to Pages 15 i-i 84

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11. Brown (1979: 23) notes that “for the Vodou worshippei; each person is at the core of his or her being, a multiplicity of beings, a polymorphous entity and that it is only at the periphery of life, in areas less important to that person, that he or she adopts clearly definable, and consistent roles or modes of being.” 12. For further discussions of how the expression of alternate selves through either spontaneous possession or multiple personality disorder can be viewed as creative presentations of self in everyday life, see also Antze 1996; Boddy 1988; Brown 1991; Lambek 1996. 13. Das (1997: 69-70) cites Wittgenstein’s 'The Blue and Brotan Books (London: Basil Blackwell, 1958): “In order to see that it is conceivable that one person should have pain in another person’s body, one must examine what sorts of facts we call criteria for a pain being in a certain place. . . . Suppose I feel a pain which on the evidence of the pain alone, e.g. with closed eyes, I should call a pain in my left hand. Someone asks me to touch the painful spot with my right hand. I do so and looking around perceive that I am touching my neighbor’s hand.. . .This would be pain felt in another’s body.” 14. I told her that I would try but that I couldn’t promise this would happen. 15. Marie was not sure of the exact dates of her transitions, so I am estimat­ ing that she was in her late teens at this time, based on her choice of words to describe her age and date of birth (demwazel). x6. Move san (bad blood) is another illness caused by emotional distress that primarily affects women and can lead to let gate (spoiled milk) in nursing moth­ ers. Farmer (1988a: 63 ) considers the “zwove san/letgate complex to be an illness caused by malignant emotions—anger born of interpersonal strife, shock, grief, chronic worry, and other affects perceived as potentially harmful.” See Brodwin 1996 for additional analyses of embodiment and idioms of distress in Haiti. 17. I address selected highlights from three of these groups. A fourth had a therapeutic discourse based on Haitian traditional healing. The fifth had a psy­ chological orientation. Both groups began late in 1998 and dwindled in atten­ dance in early 1999. As I disCuss in later chapters, ensekirite deepened after President Preval’s January ii, 1999, dissolution of parliament and decision to rule by decree. 18. The FNCD was an umbrella organization of pro-democracy groups that aligned with the Lavalas coalition and elected Aristide president in December 1990. 19. I do not know if Yves received training and employment in the assembly sector or if he worked with independent artisans. CHAPTER FOUR

1. The director did not explain the basis for these assertions. Chapter 5 explores the question of the authenticity of HRF clients’ trauma portfolios. 2. See http://govinfo.library.unt.edu/npr/whoweare/appendixf.html ; last accessed March 2009. 3. See http://govinfo.library.unt.edu/npr/library/nprrpt/annrpt/wrkcst94/create .html and hftp://govinfo.library.unt.edu/npr/library/status/sstories/aid3 .htm; accessed March 2009.

3o8

Notes to Pages 187-Z14

4. In the FY1999 “Results Review Resource Request” (R4), designed in 1997, the following SOs were outlined for- USAID/Haiti’s 1999-2004 Stra­ tegic Plan: (i) sustainable increased income for the poor; (z) environmental degradation slowed; (3) achieved desired family size and health, (4) improved human capacity; and (5) more genuinely inclusive democratic governance attained. • . . 5. I cannot discuss each intermediate result under each SO for Haiti; my dis­ cussion is limited to the way in which ADF/HRF attempted to complete certain intermediate results in its work. 6. For a general overview of the history of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, the International Covenant on Economic, Cultural and Social Rights, or the debates about their recognition and application in international law, see An-Na’im ■ 1992; Donnelly 1989; Dunne and Wheeler 1999; Savic 1999; Shute and Hurley 1993; Steiner and Alston 2000. 7. Dr. David S. Jones, pers. com., December 5, 2007. For more information on ideas of charity and the “worthy” and “unworthy poor” in nineteenth-century hospitals, see Charles Rosenberg, The Care of Strangers: The Rise of America’s Hospital System (New York: Basic Books, 1987); David Rosner, A Once Charita­ ble Enterprise: Hospitals and Health Care in Brooklyn and New York, 188^-1915 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1982). For an analysis of discourses of indigence and malingering in mental hospitals, see Foucault 1988 [19^5]8. Foucault states: “The individual is no doubt the fictitious atom of an ‘ideological’ representation of society; but he is also a reality fabricated by this specific technology of power that I have called ‘discipline’. We must cease once and for all to describe the effects of power in negative terms. ... In fact, power produces; it produces reality; it produces domains of objects and rituals of truth. The individual and the knowledge that may be gained of him belong to this production” (1979:194)* 9. There are, of course, other possible countertransference reactions to working with survivors of egregious forms of violence, such as “rage, sadistic gratification, dread and horror, shame, viewibg the survivor as a hero, and privi­ leged voyeurism” (Vesti and Kastrup 1992.: 35^> citing Danieli 1984). 10. Michele Pierre-Louis served as Haiti’s prime minister from September 2008 until October 2009, when she was ousted because of alleged poor perfor­ mance in promoting economic recovery in Haiti. 11. Camille Leblanc became minister of justice and public security in March

1999. , 12. See also the complaints about the CNVJ in Human Rights Watch, “Haiti—Thirst for Justice: A Decade of Impunity in Haiti,” vol. 8, no. 7B (Sep­ tember 1996). 13. See http://shr.aaas.org/haiti/cnvj/; last accessed March 2009. 14. See Wilson 2001 for an analysis of the use of this information database technology by the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission. 15. Some reports in the media indicate that the deputy lost two sons in this tragedy; however, during our visits with Rose-Marie only her missing eight­ year-old was discussed.

Notes to Pages 218-228

309

16. The original Lavalas Political Organization (Organisation Politique Lavalas) changed its name to the Organization of People in Struggle (Organisation du Peuple en Lutte) after the resignation of Smarth in June 1997. 17. The word lape (also spelled lapen) can also mean “bread.” I al^o discuss this double entendre in chapters i and 5. 18. This fund is discussed below and in chapter 5. ■ 19. In a meeting that I attended in spring 1999 with HRF staff members and Antoine’s successor; Minister of Justice Camille .Leblanc, Antoine was heavily criticized for allegedly having “obstructed the processes of justice” in this trial. On the Raboteau trial itself, see Brian Concannon Jr., “Beyond Complementar­ ity: The International Criminal Court and National Prosecutions, A View from Haiti,” Columbia Human Rights Law Review 32 (fall 2000): 201-50; and the documentary film Pote Mak Sonje: The Raboteau Trial, dir. Harriet Hirshofn, prod. Christine Cynn (February 2003). CHAPTER FIVE

1. As pronounced, lape can also mean ‘‘peace” and “bread.” As discussed in chapter i, it can also mean “fear.” 2. Mission de Police Civile des Nations Unies en Haiti (United Nations Civilian Police Mission in Haiti). 3. See chapter 4 J 4. The project’s formal Haitian Creole name was the Pwoje pou Bay Sosyete Sivil la Jaret (Project to Strengthen Civil Society). I did not focus on the ASOSYE project during my research beyond the extent to which its staff interacted with those of the Human Rights Fund. For a description of this program, see www.adfusa.org/content/highlight/detail/647/; last accessed March 2009. 5. The original HRFII director left his position soon after the May 29 National Colloquium for the Rehabilitation of Victims of Organized Violence. His replacement, another former MICIVIH observer, in turn left the Fund in August 1997 because of severe emotional distress. 6. Emilie Datilus is the nurse with whom I worked at the Chanm Fanm clinic in 1996. 7. Ultimately, the management team at ADF/Haiti minimized his presence in the program because of a perception that he was not able to work well with the Haitian staff and ADF’s Haitian collaborators. 8. On the basis of these and other successful activities, ADF received addi­ tional funds to expand and extend its overall political development assistance in Haiti. USAID extended the Human Rights Fund II program from July i, 1997, to June 30,1998. 9. The ASOSYE project fell within USAID’s Civil Society section, a section that development partners implementing USAID’s strategic objectives perceived as having lesser status than the Justice and Democratic Governance projects'. 10. HRFII was judged successful in achieving the intermediate results out­ lined in the October i, 1997, to June 30, 1998, Results Framework. In Janu­ ary 1998, at the midpoint of the contract, an “independent” assessment team evaluated all USAID-funded projects in the Administration of Justice Program

310

Notes to Pages 229-268

(of which the Human Rights Fund was a part), a practice that is characteristic of the publicly funded grant economy. As a result of the successful assessment, HRF was extended through summer 1999. 11. In November 1999 the AOJ program achieved infamy after a scathing portrayal by the CBS 60 Minutes program. 12. I have not been able to corroborate these allegations. 13. The BPS (Ministry of Justice Proceedings and Follow-up Office for Vic­ tims) was implementing the recommendations of the National Commission for Truth ^nd Justice and administered.the Government of Haiti’s reparation funds for viktim. . • 14. I was not able to interview* Jean to learn what had led him to acquire beneficiary status at the Fund or to his having risen to leadership in this promi­ nent victims’organization. 15. At the time the rate per visit was only H$3, but Dr. Baptiste had billed a total of up to H$9O per person. 16. I told Denise that I needed to postpone our research together for just few weeks, and then I would be able to start her contract later in the fall. She agreed to wait until December; and I began working with Sylvie as my only guide in the community outside the clinic. I was still accessible, however, to women who came to see me for bodywork or to viktim who chose to meet me at the Fund. ’ 17. I was not able to confirm this during the course of my research. 18. Among other sources of these allegations, my own research practices may have played a part. As is common in clinical research contexts, I paid indi­ viduals who were willing to test the CAPS H$2O. Although these sessions were usually one-on-one and the transfer of funds was direct, it is possible that they provoked rumors specifically about this sum of money. 19. See Maternowska 2006; and Ghosts of Cite Soleil, the 2007 documen­ tary directed by Asger Leth. 20. The Chimaera is a “fire-breathing female monster usually represented as a composite of a lion, goat, and serpent” {American Heritage College Dic­ tionary i993‘. 2.43). The name chime also signifies the dreamlike, imaginary, or ghostly presence that these groups embody through their covert but very real use of violence. . 21. I do not know if the problem was that David had survived the attack or that Fritzner had not actually been “authorized” to exercise sovereign power on behalf of the state to attempt murder. 22. I am not sure exactly where the family crossed the border or where they stayed during their time an mawonaj. . 23. Jacques was one of the individuals whom Danielle Marcia accused of having participated in the killing of her son, Mathieu Marcia, the police officer. 24. See Walt Bogdanich and Jenny Nordberg, “Mixed U.S. Signals HelpedTilt Haiti toward Chaos,” New Nork Times, January 29, 2006, www.nytimes .com/2oo6/oi/29/international/americas/29haiti.html?_r = i&oref = slogmSc pagewanted = print; accessed May 2009. See also Paul Farmer, “Who Removed Aristide?” London Review of Books, April 15, 2004, www.lrb.co.uk/v26/no8/ print/farmoi_.html; last accessed May 2009.

Notes to Pages 271-279 •

311

CHAPTER SIX

1. MIPONUH (Mission de Police Civile des Nations Unies en Haiti) was the U.N. Civilian Police Mission in Haiti. It was inaugurated in December 1997 to help “professionalize” the HNP. It had no military or peacekeeping function. 2. “Les aveux de Rodolfo Mattarollo?” Haiti Progres 16, no. 38 (December 9-15,1998): I, 8. 3. .Ibid., 8. 4. The Human Rights Fund, rather than ASOSYE, was actually responsible for the banners. 5. L’Office de Concertation pour le Developpement—the Office of Dialogue for Development. OCODE had received USAID funding in the past and spon­ sored the painting of murals throughout Haiti’s urban areas that contained French and Haitian Creole slogans promoting democracy and respect for human rights. 6. Haiti Progres, December 9-15,199,8,4., 7. Ibid. 8. Ibid. 9. One rationale for what many denounced as Preval’s “coup d’etat” was that the decision cOuId resolve the ongoing electoral dispute and parliament’s ■failure to ratify an acceptable prime minister. As discussed previously, Haiti had had no functioning government because of this protracted stalemate. Further­ more, the electoral dispute was a sign to international donors that “democracy” was failing in Haiti. Until the conflict was resolved to their satisfaction, they withheld nearly $500 million in development assistance from Haiti. 10. The GCAFVCE was inaugurated to provide better advocacy for female victims with human rights institutions, women’s organizations,’ and other NGOs, the Ministry of Justice, and the Bureau Poursuites et Suivi. 11. As discussed in chapters i and 2, when the Multinational Force invaded Haiti to restore democracy in September 1994, U.S. and U.N. military forces seized these documents and other materials that reportedly record the adminis­ trative practices and methods of repression that the terror apparatus employed between 1991 and 1994 against-the pro-democracy sector. 12. “Toto” Constant was one of the. founders of the FRAPH organization. See chapter 2.

. Glossary

Glossary

angajman contract, obligation, agreement animasyon theatrical group, community theater for development purposes ankadreman support, structural framing, guidance, protection, security an mawonaj hiding inside Haiti atache attaches, paramilitary affiliates of the coup apparatus beny public fountain or water source bidonvil slum, shantytown blan foreigner, white bonanj angel brigad vijilans neighborhood watch groups/vigilante brigades chans luck chef chief chef seksyon section chiefs chime criminal terrorists, assassins cho hot, angry, hotheaded chomaj unemployment deblozay violent tirade dechoukaj uprooting, lynching, mob violence dekonpoze state of dissociation depo storehouse, deposit ensekirite insecurity fanm woman, common-law wife fanm deyd “wife” or partner living outside the primary household ■ fanm saj lay midwives

312

313

« fe jen to fast foulfol crazy galeri anteroom or veranda , gason lakou yard boy, caretaker gas gM/o bonanj big guardian angel, nonmaterial force gwo neg big man jij de pe justice of the peace kadejak rape kamyon large truck fitted for passenger travel kes treasury, fund ko body; corps, gang, kd kadav the body, as opposed to the soul or spirit konbit large-scale, cooperative agricultural production outside the home lakou courtyard lape peace, fear lape simitye fear or peace of the cemetery lavalas flood; also the name chosen for the pro-democracy coalition (masc., Lavalasyen; fem., Lavalasyen) lavi che inflation let gate spoiled milk lougawou vampirelike spiritual entity that consumes the soul Iwa Vodou spirit madanm sara fmadansara} small-scale market woman makout sack manda subpoena manje food, to eat maryaj marriage ■ masay massage mawonaj flight from plantation slavery, internal displacement in Haiti met attorney, master militan activist ' moun person, human moun pa partisan, patron-client relationship, favoritism, cronyism move san bad blood nanm soul patwdn-mwen my patron plasaj common-law marriage potomitan pillar pwen verbal barbs, metaphysical power points pwofite to profit, exploit restavek child servant or slave san blood sekte pop He popular sector sezi shocked sezisman affliction arising from shock or trauma simitye cemetery

314 siyon sanctuary, church, Zion souse- to suck, suck the blood from a young child tap-tap pickups serving as mini-buses tay fe mal low back pain tet head tet fe mal headaches ti bonanj little guardian angel, character, will ti kominote legliz base ecclesial communities tonton makout member of the Duvalier terror apparatus travay work, sex work travay fanm women’s work travay sou memwa work on memories of the past ■van wind van nan tet feeling of heavy-headedness viktim victim vin fol went crazy vizyon visions zenglendo armed bandit, criminal zonbi disembodied aspect of the soul, the living dead

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Index

Page numbers in italics indicate an illustration.

AAAS (American Association for the Advancement of Science), 199-200 activist (militan): asylum for, no, 163, 232, 252; brigad vijilans and, 268; Raboteau trial for perpetrators of massacre of, 221, 3041119; viktim, and identity transformation of, 20, 26-28,91,102,164-68,170-71, 299nn23-24. See also pro-democ­ racy groups; victims’ advocacy groups ADF (America’s Development Founda­ tion): asylum for activists, 232; attacks on staff members of, 239; audit cultures and, 179,180, 182-83,189; criticism of, 114,115, 230; CSOs and, 113,114; described, 20-21; economic growth and demo­ cratic development goals of, 119, 120; ethnographic research and, 20; evaluation of, 205, 228-30, 285-86; food scarcity, and goals of, 114; goals of, 113-15; grant economy and, 179,182-83; headquarters, no, 225-26, 232; infrastructural reorganization for, 230; militariza­ tion in, 240-41; SOs and, 184-85; USAID/Haiti and, 20, in, 113,

182-83. See also specific aid agency or program ADF Human Rights Education Program, 227, 242, 274, 3O9n7 ADF Human Rights Fund. See the Fund (Human Rights Fund; HRF) Administration of Justice Program (AOJ), 119,122, 229, 274, 309-ionio, 3ionii Agamben, Giorgio, 44,113 ' Agger, Inger, 91 agreement (angajman), 243, 266 agricultural cooperative production (konbit), 62 aid apparatus: accusations against, 271-72,273, 311114; alliance, obli­ gation and exchange relationships with, 230-31, 237, 241, 243-46; ankadreman and, 180, 268; bio­ politics of intervention and, 41,90; commodification of suffering, and contributions from, 26,90; commu­ nications between, 226, 242; com­ passion economies’ intersection with terror economies and, 26, 29,42, 85-87, 238, 260-61, 288-89, 2.92; coup period and, 31-34, 46,49, 84, 92-93,98; democracy promotion.

335